


Just A Place Like Any Other

by Hekate1308



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, season 3 disregarded
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-19 07:33:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 56,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1461049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekate1308/pseuds/Hekate1308
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft had once again forced them to take a case, and John was certain nothing could surprise him. But finding himself in a parallel universe and meeting John Watson, the consulting detective, and Bill Holmes, his best friend, did. AU. Post-Reunion, season 3 disregarded.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Remind me again why we are doing this."

"Mycroft forced me."

John sighed. Of course he had. The elder Holmes never asked for favours; he demanded that people did what he told them to. And yet –

"He brought up certain events in the past that I would prefer remained secret".

John Watson was the only man in the world whose best friend considered breaking into a laboratory better than having made embarrassing stories of his childhood public.

"What did Trevelyan do again?" he asked, because Sherlock had simply told him that they were going to investigate a lab because Mycroft demanded it, and the name of the accused scientist.

"Trevelyan is an expert on diseases of the central nervous system. He has published several works on the subject. During the last few years, his research has become more – aggressive. He has been paying both healthy and sick individuals to participate, but to what purpose we don't know."

"Why can't we ask them?"

Even though Sherlock's back was turned towards him and they only saw as far as the two flashlights they were carrying allowed, he knew the consulting detective was rolling his eyes.

"It was difficult enough to find out that they had been at the lab. In regular intervals, people of all ages and classes would disappear and show up on the street a few days later, talking gibberish; no psychiatrist was able to help them. Not only did none of their friends or relatives knew where they had been since the day they had went missing, but no one was able to make any sense of what they were talking about. Now and then, one of them would be able to talk coherently, but even that didn't help much. Sometimes they recognized people, but insisted they had to have a different job or wife or hobby; sometimes they didn't know their next of kin. Eventually, it was found that they had all received a certain sum in the week before they disappeared. The account from which the money was paid was traced back to Trevelyan."

The doctor chose not to ask why Mycroft couldn't have the man arrested – probably because he was working for the Government or the Secret Service – and instead concentrated on making sure they were alone in the lab. It was long past midnight, and no one should be around, but one never knew.

Especially when one was following the only consulting detective in the world.

"What are we looking for?"

"There are several possibilities" Sherlock answered. John waited, but he didn't continue. Sherlock not telling him exactly what they could expect was alarming. It meant that none of the theories he had was more likely than the others. John put his hand in his pocket and felt the reassuring weight of his gun.

Sherlock quickly went through the drawers in Trevelyan's desk, John holding the flashlight for him.

"Nothing" his best friend murmured. "There's no computer – unusual. He owns a laptop. We have to find it and get – "

There was a thump outside of the door.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in the weak light.

John gestured to make him understand that he'd open the door. Sherlock nodded and positioned himself so that he could pounce on anyone who came through the door without being seen first.

John waited for another nod. He opened the door.

Nothing.

Or at least that's all John knew when he woke up.

It was still night, and he was still at the lab. He could tell that much – his flashlight had rolled under the desk and gave him enough light to be sure.

He wasn't bound, he didn't seem to be injured. He sprang up immediately, fetched the flashlight and started looking for Sherlock.

He frantically ran through the laboratory, carefully dodging machines and tables.

Where could Sherlock be? What had happened? He remembered opening the door; he didn't remember anything else. Had they been attacked? But he wasn't hurt, and he didn't feel his muscles like he would after a fight. His head was completely clear, and he was rather sure he hadn't been knocked out.

Had someone taken Sherlock? But why should they leave John on the floor?

As countless possibilities whirled through his brain, he heard someone calling his name and with a rush of relief he recognized the consulting detective's voice.

"John?"

"Sherlock!"

His best friend looked pale in the weak light.

"Are you – "

"Apart from the fact that I woke up in a different room, there doesn't seem to be anything the matter with me."

John's fingers itched to reach out and check, feel his pulse, look for injuries, but they had to get out first. Then they could wonder about what had just happened.

He could see that Sherlock wanted to continue looking for clues. Of course he was focusing on the case, of course he had to solve it, of course he had to find what he'd overlooked immediately. But this was too dangerous, they could be attacked at any time, they didn't know how they'd ended up unconscious on the floor, and John wouldn't allow him to put himself in danger.

He grabbed Sherlock's sleeve.

The consulting detective was about to protest when John said, quietly, "Please".

It was unfair – he knew he was using the guilt Sherlock still felt for having left him for three years, something they still hadn't really talked about and probably never would – but if it got him out of here and safely back into their flat, it was worth it.

Sherlock nodded, then turned around.

They left the lab and slowly made their way down the street.

Sherlock took out his phone. He didn't have to tell John that he was texting Mycroft. Maybe the British Government would be able to shed some light on who else had been in the laboratory.

John felt himself slowly relaxing the further they got away. Soon it would be safe to call a cab, and they could get home to a nice cup of tea.

Not even a minute after he'd sent his text did Sherlock's phone ring out.

John knew something was wrong when his friend stopped walking. He might frown at a text from Mycroft, he might shove his phone back in his pocket, but he never stopped. And now he was standing on the pavement, staring at the text he'd received.

"Sherlock?" John asked.

The consulting detective looked up, his face blank.

"The number is unavailable."

If this had been anyone else, John wouldn't have been concerned. But this was Mycroft, and Sherlock sent his texts to the phone the British Government never let out of his sight, the phone only a few people had the number to, John and Greg among them, and the number was unavailable.

He could feel the tension in the consulting detective, the worry he was trying to conceal.

Sherlock tried to call, even though he'd scoff at anyone who did the same after he had been informed that it was impossible to reach the person he was calling.

When he hung up, he shook his head.

"To Mycroft's?" John suggested. The elder Holmes lived in a mansion in the more expensive part of the city; the doctor had never been there, although Sherlock had told him about it.

Sherlock didn't answer. He simply walked past him and caught the nearest cab.

John waited for him to start a conversation, but he never did, and eventually, he' had enough. His flatmate had been staring out the window the entire carbide, even though he must be worried.

"Maybe it's nothing, maybe his phone is broken" he suggested. He knew it was unlikely – if something had happened to the phone, Mycroft would have had it replaced as quickly as possible.

"Mycroft has never been unreachable" Sherlock replied. "Especially not this number."

There was something in his voice, something that told of danger nights and overdoses and three years of loneliness, and John took a deep breath before saying, "He might just have forgotten to charge it. Not even Mycroft Holmes is infallible."

Sherlock smiled, even though they were both aware it was a weak explanation at best, and the rest of the ride passed in silence. John could see that the tension had gone out of his friend's shoulders, however.

The consulting detective had the cab stop three streets from the house and walked so quickly that John had trouble keeping up.

As soon as he saw the mansion, Sherlock came to a stand.

John looked up at him, watching his expression in the glare of the streetlight they were under.

"What is it?"

His friend frowned.

"Something is wrong".

John immediately felt for his gun. Sherlock hadn't used any of their code words, which meant he didn't know what was going on, so it was best to be prepared for everything.

"What – "

"The cameras. They are gone. There is no – there's no security system" Sherlock explained urgently, his eyes roaming over the house.

John looked at the mansion and realized that Sherlock was right.

There wasn't a camera in sight, and while Mycroft was more than capable of installing them in a way that ensured they were invisible from the street, they were supposed to scare burglars off, weren't they? He would want others to know he was protecting himself.

"The colour is wrong".

"What?" John turned to look at Sherlock.

The consulting detective drew a breath.

"It wasn't – the wall – the house has a different colour".

John might have answered that Mycroft could have had it painted, but it sounded stupid even in his head.

He stood there, after an unsuccessful break-in into a secret laboratory, his best friend looking at the house of his brother like he'd never seen it before, the streetlamp still giving them light while far away, he could see the first beginning of dawn.

Sherlock shook himself out of his reverie and moved towards the house.

The doctor could have tried to stop him – with all that was going on, it was possible that they were walking into a trap – but this was Sherlock's brother, and his friend looked so determined that he knew nothing would stop him. He drew his gun.

Sherlock didn't bother to knock, but picked the lock.

He didn't leave John any time to stop him, try to dissuade him from running into the building.

As it were, he could only follow him.

They didn't get far.

All it took was three steps for a woman to start screaming.

It was so unexpected that, for a moment, all John could do was stare as the screams continued and a man came running down the stairs to the left side of the front door.

The man wasn't Mycroft, he was obviously angry and carried a gun.

"What are you doing in my house?" he shouted and raised his arm.

John acted quickly. He grabbed Sherlock's arm and dragged him out of the house, hissing, "Run!"

They did.

They stopped several blocks away from the mansion, breathing heavily.

"I don't understand – " Sherlock panted.

"We have to – " he drew a deep breath. "We should get to Mycroft's office".

John nodded. This time, the consulting detective didn't look for a cab. That alone told the doctor how worried he was. If he preferred walking, if he didn't think he could sit still long enough to get to the office...

"What –"

"I have no idea!" Sherlock almost shouted before calming himself. "I apologize. The whole situation is – confusing."

"Don't" John said. "I understand".

While he had never been fond of the elder Holmes, he knew that Sherlock cared about his brother. A brother who he couldn't reach and in whose house they had found strangers.

John figured the best he could do was to follow Sherlock and help him clear this up as soon as possible.

Sadly, it wasn't that easy. They never made it to Mycroft's office that morning.

Because, as they were walking down an otherwise empty street, a cheerful, familiar voice behind them called out, "Hey, what are you doing here?"

They turned around and stared.

The man was walking towards them, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, a grin on his face.

He looked just like always, and yet so utterly different – he wasn't holding himself the way he usually did, and John had never seen him in a leather jacket or a t-shirt with the name of an old rock band on it – that all the doctor could say was, "Greg?"

The DI grinned even brighter.

"You remembered my name!"

"Of course I did" John replied, confused. Greg didn't leave him the time to continue, but turned to Sherlock.

"Where is he dragging you at this time of day, Bill?"


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock stared at the DI. Greg wasn't up at this time of day, unless he got called to a crime scene, and he knew he hadn't been, since he'd made a habit since the consulting detective's return to tell him about all cases that came his way.

They had grown closer since Sherlock returned, especially when he'd admitted – because he wanted to, because he felt the DI had a right to know – that he'd been one of the three people Moriarty had threatened on the rooftop.

And ever since Greg had shown up at Baker Street to arrest Colonel Moran and seen that Sherlock was alive, Sherlock had called him by his first name.

Sherlock knew Greg, had known him for longer than he had John; he could recall every expression of the DI, his habits, his thought processes as familiar as Sherlock's own.

Something was wrong.

He didn't know how else to describe it. Greg didn't wear leather jackets, and he didn't stand on streets at dawn, looking as if he didn't have a care in the world. The mischievous twinkle in his eyes was normally far more subdued.

Plus, he had called Sherlock "Bill".

John was the only one, aside from Mycroft, who knew his full name. Sherlock had chosen to be called by his second name early in life. No one had ever called him "Bill". He wouldn't have put it past Greg to do so when he wanted to annoy him, but he didn't know. Unless John had told him.

He looked at the doctor, but John shook his head to indicate that he had no idea how Greg knew.

Sherlock looked at him once more and realized that he couldn't tell where the DI had been. In fact – he couldn't deduce him at all. It didn't make sense. Why couldn't Sherlock deduce him?

No. That wasn't right. He could deduce, of course, but what he got – _spent a lot of time outdoors in the last few weeks, visited a pub last night, hasn't been to the Yard or St. Bart's in a while –_ didn't make any sense. He knew it to be false. Greg had spent yesterday at 221B, leaving around eleven pm, three hours before Sherlock and John had gone to the lab.

"Bill? You alright, mate?"

Greg looked at John, shaking his head disapprovingly.

"Where have you been dragging him?"

John blinked.

"Dragging?"

The DI's expression changed to one of concern.

"You guys okay? What have you been up to?"

Sherlock cleared his throat.

"We were working a case".

Greg rolled his eyes.

"I gathered as much. No other reason for you to run around."

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock inquired, because he couldn't stand not knowing any longer.

"The usual?" At Sherlock's confused look, Greg huffed impatiently. "I have been running around, trying to find the guy our genius here is looking for".

He waved his hand in John's direction. This answer only confused the consulting detective more. His flatmate answered before he had a chance to.

"Guy – I – Greg, we're not looking for anybody at the moment – "

The other man frowned. "What do you mean? Just two days ago, you demanded that I find him as soon as possible, and – " he stopped and his gaze wandered from John to Sherlock. "What are you wearing anyway? Are you undercover?"

"Undercover?" Sherlock demanded.

"Never seen John in anything different than a suit" the DI declared, and Sherlock knew definitely that something was wrong. The doctor rarely wore suits, preferring jeans and jumpers, and he was sure that Greg could count the number of times he'd seen him in one on one hand.

"Greg, I don't like wearing suits" John explained slowly. He shot Sherlock a look that clearly meant he expected his help and asked, "Why don't you come with us? I'll make you a cup of tea – "

"You? Make tea?" He laughed, but stopped when he saw John's face.

"Is he serious?" he asked. Sherlock needed a moment to realize that he was asking him – normally, this sort of question was directed towards John.

He nodded.

Greg cleared his throat.

"I – alright, then. How about we all get back to Baker Street?"

They agreed. Without giving each other any sign, they ended up on both sides of the DI. Sherlock's mind was racing. Greg hadn't been under more stress than usual lately, and he had never suffered from disorientation or hallucinations before. He had been fine when he had left their flat seven hours ago. Something must have happened in the meantime.

John didn't try to argue with him, and Sherlock decided that he should follow his doctor's example. He was about to call a cab when Greg suddenly took a turn, almost knocking him over, and walking along a side street.

During the next half hour they made their way to Baker Street through small alleyways, passing streets and corners that Sherlock wouldn't have thought the DI knew of. It wasn't the way he would ever have pictured Greg taking.

John glanced at him from time to time, to make sure that they were walking in the right direction. Sherlock couldn't blame him. He knew every street in London, but he wouldn't have pictured any of his friends to take this route.

And it wasn't just the path the DI had chosen – something about the way he moved was different as well. Close to the buildings, always in the shadows. The friend Sherlock knew liked to walk in the middle of the pavement, confident and with wide strides. This was how his homeless network moved – quickly, quietly, invisible.

Greg was walking fast, always a step or two in front of them, no matter how many times they tried to keep him between them, and eventually they allowed it. He wasn't running away at least.

Something was nagging at the back of Sherlock's mind, but he only realized what it was when they were nearly home.

Greg hadn't called Mycroft.

His brother and the DI had formed a sort of friendship while Sherlock had been gone – and even before that, Mycroft had had Greg check up on Sherlock, and he in turn had informed Mycroft of anything important. Now he believed Sherlock and his blogger had lost their minds – or were, at the very least, tired and confused – and he hadn't even tried to call him.

Sherlock contemplated trying again himself, but knew there would be no point. If something had happened to his brother's phone, the British Government would have sent him a text from one of the many others he had at his disposal.

It was better to deal with Greg first.

They followed him without saying a word, although Sherlock could feel John's glances. Naturally, the doctor was worrying about him worrying about Mycroft.

His flatmate would never cease to amaze him.

He realized they would be at Baker Street soon. They would get Greg in the flat first and then decide what to do.

"You're still not going to tell me what you were doing?" Greg asked, looking back at him.

"Business of Mycroft's" Sherlock replied courtly.

Unexpectedly, the DI laughed once more, leaving them to wonder what was so funny, Sherlock remembering that he and his brother had shared more than one glass of brandy before and after he'd returned and wonder why he would be amused by them taking one of the British Government's cases.

"I have to remember that one." Greg melodramatically wiped a few tears from his eyes. ""Business of Mycroft's", indeed".

Sherlock didn't know what to say. It had never been a feeling he'd particularly cherished, and now when his friend was clearly experiencing some kind of medical problem, it was more annoying than ever.

He looked at John and raised an eyebrow.

He shook his head, and Sherlock nodded. If John thought arguing wouldn't do any good, he wouldn't.

Although he really wished he could.

There was something about Greg – something about the way he talked – that, despite knowing about his confusion, made Sherlock uncomfortable.

He was too easygoing.

It wasn't that the DI didn't care; no, if he'd have stopped caring it would have been easier. But he thought that Sherlock and John were confused, and he took the fact remarkably well.

Too well for the man who'd shown up on his doorstep and looked through his belongings on danger nights more often than Sherlock could count.

He swallowed and continued to follow Greg.

Soon, they found themselves within twenty feet of the house.

Then something happened that Sherlock could never have predicted.

The door flew open, and Sherlock Holmes stormed out.

He was carrying a bag, wearing a jacket the consulting detective wouldn't have put on of his own free will, and talking into his mobile phone.

"I owe you. Thanks, Mike. I'll see you in half an hour."

He hung up and was about to walk into the other direction when Greg, who was staring at him like he'd just seen a ghost, called out, "Bill!"

He turned around and his mouth fell open.

This was going to be an interesting day, Sherlock decided.


	3. Chapter 3

The other Sherlock's – John didn't know how else to describe him – expression changed from shock to resignation in an instant.

He sighed.

"He drugged me again. Of course. Sorry, Greg – "

"No, mate. I can see them too".

His mouth dropped open again.

"What do you mean?"

He moved cautiously towards them.

"I brought them here – found them on the street, thought they, or rather you, had been out too long. Well, at least I know why they are so out of it".

"But – how – why?"

He raised a hand and pocked the consulting detective in the chest. The indignation on Sherlock's face would have made John laugh in any other situation.

"They're solid..."

"You can't know that" Sherlock interrupted him. He narrowed his eyes and his gaze swept over his look-alike.

"What do you mean?" the other Sherlock – Bill, John remembered, for whatever reason, Greg had called him "Bill" – "I touched you – "

"Yes, but you didn't touch John. Therefore, you cannot know that we are both solid."

Bill blinked. Then he raised his hand and punched John lightly on the chest.

"Happy, now?" he asked, sarcastically and exasperated, and the doctor was more confused than before. This wasn't a reaction he would ever expect from Sherlock.

In fact –

The whole reason why Sherlock had exclaimed that the other man couldn't know they were both solid just from touching one of them was that the consulting detective would never have made the assumption so easily.

He looked different, too. Of course, his features, his height, his voice – it was all identical to Sherlock's, but he was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and a jacket that John would have worn, but his best friend would have sneered at, and his hair was cut shorter. He carried himself the wrong way, too – not straight like Sherlock, who wanted people to know how tall he was, but slumping his shoulders, so he wouldn't intimidate people.

And who was Mike?

Bill turned to the DI.

"Is it just me, or – "

He shook his head.

"Yeah, he does act like John, doesn't he? Right to the you-are-an-idiot-but-I-will-explain-anyway stare".

"John?"

Greg and Bill ignored Sherlock's question, however, because at this moment, the DI noticed the other man's bag and pointed at it with a smirk.

"Need a break, I see".

"He burned my favourite t-shirt" Bill fumed. "Said it was "necessary", and when I told him I'd be spending a few days with Mike, he acted like he knew I was going to be back – "

"Because you always come back" Greg stated.

"That obvious?" Bill sighed.

"I don't like him being alone" he continued, "no matter how mad he makes me".

John thought that he knew the feeling, but decided not to comment on it. He had to make some sense of the situation – Sherlock wouldn't be much help. He was deducing them, waiting, but John was too impatient. It was too confusing – seeing his best friend and someone else, who was not his best friend yet so similar to him.

He cleared his throat.

"How about we try to figure out what's going on?"

Bill, who had been telling Greg about the experiment that had led to leaving, looked at John.

"Of course. Well – Let's start from the beginning. Who are you?"

Before Sherlock could scoff and tell him it was obvious, John answered, "Sherlock Holmes and John Watson."

"Sherlock?" Bill raised an eyebrow, and it reminded him so much of his friend that John simply stared while Sherlock replied, "Yes."

"You actually went with Sherlock?"

"It is my name" Sherlock said indignantly.

"Your second name."

"Wait, your second name is Sherlock?"

Greg was obviously trying to hold in his laughter. Bill glared at him.

"There is a reason why I never told you."

"I can imagine, but – it's priceless." The DI chuckled. "Any other names I should know of?"

"Scott. William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Are you happy?" Bill turned to Sherlock again.

"You call yourself Sherlock" he stated, clearly confused by the consulting detective's choice, "That's like Mike using Mycroft".

"He doesn't?"

"Mike is called Mycroft?"

Sherlock and Greg spoke at the same time. John could only stand there and try to comprehend what was happening. Failing to do so, he asked, "Shouldn't we move indoors? This is difficult enough without other people seeing us."

The sun had risen, and soon Baker Street would be full of people.

Bill nodded.

"You are right." He picked his bag up and went to the front door; after unlocking it, he stepped back and let the others enter first.

John was relieved that at first glance everything seemed to be normal; Mrs. Hudson, thankfully, wasn't up yet and they got into the flat without being noticed.

The flat that looked just as different as this Sherlock – Bill, John reminded himself – did.

There was still a sofa, and two chairs, but the skull was missing, as were the smiley and the bullet holes on the wall, and the doctor had to admit that the flat appeared strangely empty without them.

Out of the kitchen came the well-known sounds of someone handling chemistry equipment.

Only that Sherlock was standing next to him and Bill was dropping his bag on the sofa, which meant the only person who could be experimenting...

"I knew you would be back, but I had expected you to be angry for at least two more hours".

Hearing his own voice was weird.

John looked at Sherlock. The consulting detective, naturally, appeared interested in what was going on, but wasn't yet ready to share his theory. He nodded to reassure the doctor and gave him an almost imperceptible wave that clearly meant he should stand back and watch for the moment.

Even though he wanted to ask questions, he trusted Sherlock like he always did and listened to an impatient huff, followed by a chair being pushed back.

"If you think this silence is going to impress me, you are wrong, especially considering you brought Lestrade and two others with you – "

John Watson stopped in the kitchen doorway and took in the scene before him.

It wasn't the John Watson he knew, just like Sherlock had expected.

He didn't yet have enough data to form a theory, which was the reason he'd been quiet; he was aware that his silence was surprising John. In truth, he simply didn't know what to say. It was confusing-

But it was obvious that this wasn't the DI he'd met all these years ago. And Bill was certainly not him, although they did share some characteristics.

Therefore, Sherlock, despite the surprise that hearing John speak so carelessly had brought, considered himself prepared for any version of John that might enter the room.

He would admit, however, that it was strange to see the doctor in a suit in the weak light of the rising sun that came through the window, his hair sleeked back with hair gel, looking them up and down –

No, not looking. Deducing. He was deducing them.

Sherlock had rarely been deduced, Mycroft barely having occasion to do so since he knew everything from the security cameras or his surveillance teams, and it was an interesting experience. He could even see why ordinary people might find it unnerving.

The other John finally fixed his stare on Bill.

"I do appreciate the distraction, but what is going on?"

Bill shrugged.

"I don't know. Greg brought them – "

"Who?"

The man was honestly confused. Sherlock couldn't blame him – he'd had trouble remembering the DI's name as well – but after everything, after he'd jumped from a rooftop to save his friends, he felt annoyed. He couldn't help but feel that people should know Lestrade's name. No matter how irrational it was.

Greg waved at John with a resigned smile, showing that they had had that conversation before.

"Remember me? The guy who's been running your errands for years now?"

John frowned. "I am capable of remembering you" he said calmly.

"But not my first name? That reminds me, did you know Bill's second name was Sherlock?"

Bill's shoulders slumped and he let himself fall on the sofa.

The other man shrugged.

"If I did, I didn't consider the information important enough to keep".

While they were talking, Sherlock quickly deduced the man before him.

_Never received medical education. Never entered the military. Is, however, well-versed in chemistry and physics, has been to St. Bart's within the last few days; as well as the Yard, hasn't eaten for three days –_

A theory was forming in his mind and he quickly looked at Bill. He had already deduced him on the street, but he wanted to be sure.

_Works at a lab. Lives here with John. Got annoyed by John burning his favourite t-shirt in an experiment, hasn't slept as much as he would like, has not taken all of his belongings with him, meaning he knew he'd return, spends much time typing –_

It all fit.

They were looking at John Watson, the consulting detective, and Sherlock Holmes, his blogger.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock quickly dismissed the thought that what he was seeing was impossible. John was right beside him, experiencing the same, and it was far too logical, far too real to be a hallucination.

Plus, they had been in a laboratory whose existence was kept a secret. It wasn't impossible that what people had thought of as impossible could happen while they were there.

"Sherlock?"

John had moved closer to him, staring at the other version of himself. Sherlock couldn't blame it. It must be a shock. The consulting detective, while he was surprised to see William Holmes acting like a normal person, obviously having a good relationship with his brother – as shown by him calling him after he'd had a fight with his flatmate – and a job that was recognized by society as such, it didn't shock him. Since Moriarty, he had a new appreciation for sentiment, for being human, and if he happened to be so in an alternate universe – or wherever they had landed – he supposed it wasn't that bad. After all, he was the John in this version.

But John – he saw himself being what Sherlock had been before they'd met. And –

Sherlock frowned.

This wasn't right.

He had changed after Moriarty. After three years alone. He had stopped trying to convince himself that he was a high-functioning sociopath.

So why was John still acting like he was?

Maybe Moriarty was alive.

Sherlock took a deep breath and felt John move even closer to him. Of course his flatmate would notice that he was disturbed by the theories running through his mind.

"So" the other John interrupted his thoughts, "Since it is impossible that you are hallucinations – it would be impossible for us to see and hear exactly the same – we need to figure out what happened. Tell us what you did before Lestrade found you".

Sherlock huffed, annoyed. Of course they had to analyze the situation, but there was no need to treat them like a child. Without sparing the man a glance, he walked over to the fireplace, realizing that the chairs had been switched – or rather, that this John still preferred a more comfy chair, even if he was acting like he didn't care about anything other than his experiments (and he didn't remember, he forced himself not to remember, it wasn't important) – but not caring as he sat down in his usual place. They had to prove that they were indeed real – certain doubts must linger, had to linger, because ordinary people were convinced there was no such thing as "parallel universes", and Bill and Lestrade still looked like they couldn't make sense of what they saw – and that they were different.

Because if they didn't, John would refuse to take his opinion seriously, Bill would continue to try and make sense of their existence, which was as senseless as it was unnecessary, and Greg would probably make fun of it all, because obviously he didn't care much for what happened.

Strangely, it was this that distracted Sherlock the most. He could live with watching himself stumbling around like any other human being; he could live with John being brilliant. But Greg not caring –

Now was not the time for sentiment, he reminded himself. They had to stop asking questions that led them nowhere and work together.

The other John raised an eyebrow.

"I usually sit here" Sherlock said. He knew he'd be able to deduce what he meant. His behaviour didn't allow any other conclusion.

He was right. John slowly walked over to the chair opposite him and sat down. He leaned forward, his chin resting on his right hand.

"So" he stated slowly, "you two are – "

"From a parallel universe" Sherlock interrupted him. "At least it's the most plausible theory."

John narrowed his eyes.

"You don't work in a lab, like Bill does. You spend a lot of time at St. Bart's, as well as Scotland Yard. You experimented on a lung less than twenty-four hours ago."

For a moment, he was silent. Then he continued, "You are a consulting detective".

Sherlock nodded.

"The only one in the world – our world. I – "

"Invented the job" John finished, standing up and brushing off his suit. He started pacing.

"People do not suddenly appear in different universes, dimensions, or worlds" he explained, "it is impossible that no one would have noticed. Something happened. You were sent here, but based on the fact that Lestrade and Bill brought you here without giving any explanation, you didn't give any, which you would surely have done if you knew what. Therefore, you arrived here unexpectedly. Any theories?"

Sherlock had patiently waited for John to finish his monologue, being aware that he would not appreciate being interrupted, and quickly glanced at his John, who was watching him with a mixture of amusement and annoyance.

He quickly waved at him to sit down – there was no reason for the doctor to remain standing, clearly none of the three other people in this room were a threat – and began.

"We were investigating a certain Doctor Trevelyan, who was most likely involved with the Secret Service, but had apparently started to use volunteers for dangerous experiments."

"How did you learn about Trevelyan?" John asked. "And how much time did you need to deduce everything? It took me several months to understand why members of my homeless network disappeared and returned mad –"

"You mean over a year" Bill corrected him automatically, and Sherlock realized this was his equivalent of John calling him out on the few mistakes he'd made during investigations in the last few years, to remind him that he wasn't always right. But that wasn't what had him sit completely still, his gaze fixed on the wall.

John had mentioned his homeless network.

That in itself wasn't shocking. It seemed only logical. A homeless network was the quickest and most practical way to gather information.

But Sherlock had never thought, not for one moment –

That Greg Lestrade, that his DI, could be part of it in this universe.

It was idiotic of him, of course; all the signs had been there. It was obvious. Greg running around on the streets, frequenting pubs, the allusions to "errands" he ran for John –

And yet Sherlock hadn't drawn the conclusion because he found it difficult to see anything but the DI in him. Seeing John brilliant but rude he could deal with; seeing himself ordinary he could deal with. But his DI, the DI who'd arrested him and then offered him to work with him, the DI who'd watched over him, often against his will, on danger nights, the DI who had warned him before he was going to arrest him, homeless and having given up on himself and his life, to the point of not caring what happened to John, to him –

Normally, this was the type of man Sherlock would gladly have in his homeless network. The type of man who followed a lead anywhere because he needed the money.

But this was Greg. And it wasn't right.

"You alright?" the very person he'd been thinking about asked, tilting his head to the side. "You're staring at me funny".

"Obviously you aren't part of my network in his universe. Boring".

Sherlock had his confirmation. Whatever cases John and Bill had worked on – they had never met Moriarty, John had never faked his death and spent years apart from his friends. Otherwise, he wouldn't have talked that way.

He realized that he was thinking in a way that he would have scoffed at before he met John, and that this John would scoff at now. He didn't care.

"What was I?" Greg's voice broke through his thought process.

"You know me. So, what was I? Drug dealer? Murderer?"

He sounded too cheerful in Sherlock's opinion, but there was nothing he could do about it, so he replied courtly, "DI."

Greg laughed.

"Me? A DI? At Scotland Yard? Let me guess, bowing to your every whim, like Gregson does?"

So Gregson was still working for the police, Sherlock noted.

"You help us" he answered quietly, and saw that this John was confused by his reply, but didn't care.

"I bet" Greg remarked sarcastically.

John opened his mouth, but his counterpart talked first.

"It doesn't matter. You didn't answer my question."

"My brother, Mycroft, forced me to take the case."

He might have enunciated the British Government's name more than he had to – in fact, when they had been children, he'd often used the abbreviation "Mike" to annoy him – but he felt it was necessary. Everyone in the room had to accept that, while looking the same, they were different people with different lives.

"Mike? He forced you?"

Bill shook his head.

"He wouldn't – "

"Your brother obviously isn't the same as this man's" John said, impatiently. "Let him continue".

It confused Sherlock that Bill simply stopped asking questions without any sign that he was angry. The consulting detective had been dismissive of John and his relations, but despite his and Harry's complicated relationship, the doctor had never failed to tell him that he thought his comments inappropriate. Although what he deemed inappropriate might depend on how well he and Harry got on at the moment.

He watched as Bill sat down on the sofa, completely unconcerned with his best friend telling him that the brother he had been about to see when he'd run into them wasn't an important topic in this discussion and Greg deciding to sit down beside him, studying them as if he was bored and needed entertainment.

Their roles weren't just reversed, and this wasn't simply Greg as a member of his homeless network, he realized. He had almost made the same mistake he was trying to get the others to avoid – looking upon them as nothing but copies, being convinced that Bill was like John and John was like him. It would be easy, it would be tempting. It would be human error, and Sherlock refused to let it happen when he needed to gather his thoughts to get him and John back home.

"Mycroft is the British Government" Sherlock's John decided to explain, probably because Sherlock hadn't answered yet, too busy watching Bill's reaction, much to this universe's John obvious annoyance, if his expression was anything to go by, "and he suspected that something was going on. So we broke into the lab – "

"We heard noises" Sherlock continued. "We went to see what was going on, but sadly were knocked unconscious; when we woke up, we were here."

"And then I found them and brought them to you. I think that warrants extra payment" Greg happily announced.

"I do not think that you have done what you were sent out to do. There is no reason to pay you".

The – member of John's homeless network shrugged his shoulders good-naturedly, showing he'd expected this reaction.

John sighed. His shoulders slumped for a moment before he stood up straight, and Sherlock shot his friend a glance out of the corner of his eye, to find that his gaze was flickering between his counterpart and the consulting detective, most likely comparing John's movements to Sherlock's when he was annoyed at someone.

"Let's get back to the topic, shall we?"

"Like I said" Sherlock replied, "We don't know what brought us here."

"Did you search the lab?"

"No."

"Why not? It might have – "

"We had been knocked unconscious. We wanted to get home".

John sounded hostile, and Sherlock bit his lip. He didn't want the doctor and his counterpart to fight. Naturally, it was almost inevitable that they did so – John might have been able to accept this John's attitude because it reminded him of Sherlock, but what he wouldn't be able to accept would be the dismissive way in which he treated his friends. Sherlock hadn't acted like this ever since he returned.

He wanted to interfere, but as soon as he saw that the other John's spine had straightened, he knew it was useless.


	5. Chapter 5

John couldn't take it anymore. He knew he shouldn't start a fight with himself – how strange it sounded, how surreal it all was, even if he could see with his own eyes that it was true, even if Sherlock was next to him – but he couldn't take one more minute of this.

Sherlock was rude, would always be rude, at least to some people. He had changed since they'd met, and John had as well. The doctor was much more patient with his friend's antics now, because he had missed them for three long years. And Sherlock –

Sherlock was friendly to the people he cared about. Not in an open way, not in a way ordinary people would call friendly, but John saw the change. John saw Sherlock telling Greg the solution of a case that had been bothering the DI, but was "too boring" for the consulting detective in a half-sentence; John saw Sherlock thanking Molly for body parts; he saw Sherlock helping Mrs. Hudson carrying her groceries inside, even though he insisted she'd forced him to.

Yet, even if none of this had ever taken place, if Moriarty hadn't existed, if Sherlock hadn't disappeared –

He wouldn't have treated John like that. He never had. He'd been impolite, and dismissive of many things the doctor considered important, but he hadn't been so uncaring.

John would have been uncomfortable with anyone playing the role of his best friend acting like this.

But to see himself treating Sherlock like this –

He couldn't take it anymore.

Therefore, he argued in a far more hostile tone than he should have that they had been knocked unconscious and therefore couldn't give this John any information about what happened to them.

He didn't realize what the other man would do until he did.

His counterpart's eyes narrowed.

"I would think that, considering you are in our universe, you'd try to be a little more patient". His voice dripped with sarcasm. "Then again, I do not think that someone who decided that being shot at was a good career choice understand the complexities of a superior mind..."

John's hands clenched into fists. Sherlock had never made a comment on his profession – aside from it being useful, since he could easily treat victims or witnesses who happened to stumble in their flat, as well as themselves – most likely because he knew what it meant to John. He had been a soldier and a doctor; he had saved people. He had killed because he had to, because it was his duty, but more than anything, he had healed those who could be healed. He was proud of what he had achieved.

If Sherlock had been able to deduce this, then so was this man, he had to be if he dared to claim the same title as his best friend, and that he had used this information to –

There was a hand on his arm. John looked up into Sherlock's face.

The consulting detective shook his head. The meaning was clear.

John took a deep breath.

At this moment, Bill obviously tried to diffuse the tension by standing up and asking, "Does anyone want a cup of tea?"

"Why not" Greg answered, standing up and sauntering into the kitchen. "You'll have to make it, though. I'm not touching anything in there."

The scene was so strange and yet so familiar that John chuckled and took a deep breath.

The other John chose to interpret Sherlock's glance for what it was – a warning – and called out, "I take it – "

"I know how you like your tea" Bill called out.

John turned back to Sherlock and his best friend.

"Do you have any idea why you are here?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"I have several theories – seven, to be exact – but no concrete data. It might be we were transferred here for a very specific reason; it might be whoever sent us into this universe simply wanted to get us out of the way."

"And, of course" John added, "We have to get you home". He started pacing again. "We cannot be sure that you being here won't create a paradox. There have been many works on the possibilities of parallel universes, but – "

"At the time, it seemed highly improbable, so you didn't save them" Sherlock interrupted. He had the same problem.

He had always focused on practical information he could use in his work; and scientific theories like parallel universes had never been such. It had been too improbable, as John put it. He hadn't considered that he might one day be transferred into one, and with his best friend at that.

John, his John, cleared his throat.

"There has to be an expert. Or at least someone who's published something about this kind of thing. We could – "

He stopped talking. Sherlock knew what he had been about to say. In their world, he would have called Mycroft. Perhaps unwillingly, and with the knowledge that he would have to solve a case for his brother, but he would have called him, and they would have been talking to an expert less than an hour later. Here...

"Do you know anyone?" he asked reluctantly, almost angry that his brother wasn't the British Government. Surprising, considering he had spent most of his life being annoyed at the surveillance that had been put on him because of that fact.

Sentiment. It never ceased to amaze him.

John sighed.

"Sadly, it is rather difficult to contact such experts as would benefit us in our situation. I don't have the kind of influence you seem to possess".

Sherlock told himself not to be pleased about the bitterness in the other man's tone. They had to work together.

"I know who could find out..." Bill said, coming out of the kitchen carrying a tray with four cups on it. Greg sauntered into the living room behind him, holding his own cup.

"I didn't know how you liked it, and I think I made it accidentally the way we drink it, it's confusing, you know – "

John assured him with a smile that it was fine and quickly took two cups, handing one to Sherlock.

As it turned out, their counterparts seemed to like their tea exactly like Sherlock and John did.

"Who could find out?" Sherlock inquired.

"Jim. He works at St. Bart's. He's the IT guy, and he has a talent for finding information – even if it's not always legal..."

"Jim?" John interrupted. His voice trembled slightly, but he didn't care. Jim, working at St. Bart's. Jim from IT.

No. It couldn't be.

"Jim Moriarty."

It was.

John went to sit down on the sofa, carefully placing his cup on the table.

"Are you alright?" Bill asked, moving towards him.

"Yes" the doctor replied shakily, bringing his right hand up to his temple, "It was just a surprise".

He shot Sherlock a look. The consulting detective's face was a blank mask, but John could imagine what he must be feeling. James Moriarty. The man who had cost them three years of their lives.

And he was here. Of course, there was no reason to assume he was a consulting criminal in this world too – in fact, it was more likely that he was what Bill had said he was.

And yet –

Simply picturing Sherlock working with Moriarty, calling him Jim, was enough to make John feel sick.

"What about him? He's completely ordinary" his counterpart inquired, and it took John a moment to realize that he was talking to him and that Sherlock had come to stand before him, shoving Bill out of the way.

"Not in our universe" the consulting detective responded drily, placing a hand on John's shoulder.

"John?"

"I'm fine" the doctor said, smiling even though he didn't feel like it because Sherlock was trying to comfort him.

"It was just unexpected."

Sherlock's somewhat guilty look told him that he had considered the possibility, but not told him about it, but it wasn't like he'd had the time to do so, and he smiled once more to show him that they were okay.

His friend's hand dropped from his shoulder, but not before John saw the relief in his eyes.

"And what was he in your universe?"

"A criminal" Sherlock announced matter-of-factly. "One of the most dangerous men this city has ever seen."

"Really?" John's eyes lit up. "Interesting".

"John" Bill warned him. "Jim's my friend."

"So I am not allowed to be interested in a far more fascinating version of him?"

Bill threw his hands in the air.

"Sometimes I wonder why I even try" he muttered, but John heard a note of the fond annoyance he'd often used when talking to Sherlock in his voice, and it made him feel better.

He forced himself to think logically.

Moriarty wasn't Moriarty – wasn't the consulting criminal. He could help them. If Bill was right, and it was likely he was – since they were friends, he'd know what Jim was capable of.

"Let's go see Jim" he stated, and Sherlock shot him an indecipherable look.


	6. Chapter 6

DI Greg Lestrade had seen many things in the course of his career, and being Sherlock Holmes' handler had caused him to see even more than he would have otherwise.

He was used to leaving his office at a moment's notice when Sherlock needed him; he was used to going for a drink with John when the doctor needed a break. Since the consulting detective had returned, he was used to spending evenings at 221B, sometimes joining in their bickering and sometimes content to watch.

And he was used to meeting Mycroft Holmes now and then. After Sherlock had disappeared – and everyone, including the British Government, had thought he was dead – somehow it had become a ritual for him to stop by at the Diogenes Club at his way home to keep Mycroft company over a glass of brandy. Maybe because no one else had spared Sherlock's brother a thought; maybe because John had more and more withdrawn into himself ; maybe because he had missed the annoying sod so much.

Whatever the reason, he and Mycroft had formed a sort of friendship, and it wasn't unusual that the British Government called him under the pretence of talking about Sherlock when he only wanted to ask if Greg would be going to the Diogenes Club that night.

So he wasn't concerned when Mycroft's name showed up on his phone display, or at least not as concerned as he had been in the beginning.

Which changed once he heard what he had to tell him.

"Sherlock and John have disappeared."

"What do you mean, disappeared?" he stammered, standing up and moving towards his office door without realizing he was doing it.

He knew Mycroft well enough to be certain he wouldn't use the word lightly. The surveillance the British Government had on his brother was perfect – or at least it was rare that Mycroft couldn't say where Sherlock was or was likely to be. But "disappeared" implied that he had no idea. "Disappeared" implied that Sherlock and John were God knew where, most likely in trouble.

"They were investigating a case" Mycroft answered, and from the slight reluctance in his tone Greg knew that they had once more been forced by him to do so.

"They never returned home."

"When did they leave the flat?" he inquired, glancing at his watch.

10 am. It was 10 am. He had seen them last at eleven pm last night, when he'd said his goodbyes and returned home.

This meant there was a chance they had been missing for nearly eleven hours. Too long. Greg was aware what could happen in such a space of time.

"At 2 pm. They arrived at their destination half an hour later. After that, there is no trace of them to be found".

Greg inwardly cursed Mycroft's discretion. He would need a better clue than "their destination" if he was to find them. And he would. He had to.

"Where were they?" he demanded briskly. He had no time to be polite. Mycroft had called him for a reason, and he had to get all information he needed as quickly as possible.

"There is a car waiting for you outside" the elder Holmes replied and hung up.

Greg sighed; he would have preferred to be told where he was going. But at least he would be going where they'd been before they had disappeared.

He barely took the time to bark at Donovan that he was leaving – she didn't protest, probably assuming it had to do with Sherlock. She hadn't complained once about their work with the consulting detective since he'd returned from the dead, and Greg had never been more thankful for this than at this moment.

He was disappointed to find that no one was waiting for him in the car. While had hadn't expected to see Mycroft, he'd hoped his PA formerly known as Anthea whose current name he hadn't bothered to remember would be there to tell him what he needed to know.

He tried to guess where they were driving, but he didn't know London as well as Sherlock.

He kept wondering what could have happened, even though it was useless. The situation was highly alarming. Despite ignoring what they were up to most of the time, Mycroft always knew where his brother and his blogger were. And if he didn't, he usually found them again within minutes.

And apparently he'd been looking since half past two in the morning. And he hadn't found them.

Greg forced himself to focus on the matter at hand, rather than his anger that he hadn't been contacted sooner. There was no reason to think that Mycroft would regard him as anything different than a last resort. Mycroft wasn't Sherlock, who had proven on more than one occasion that Greg meant more to him than his treatment of the DI would suggest, and who had pretended to jump of that roof not only to save John, but Mrs. Hudson and Greg as well, as he'd admitted not long ago.

Greg swallowed. He refused to live in a world where Sherlock didn't exist again. He would find them.

At least they were together. If one of them was out there alone, unconscious or not, kidnapped or not, Mycroft would have found him. They had to be together. They could look out for each other.

The car came to a halt. Greg looked out of the window and saw a big, non-descript building. He quickly opened the door, to the driver's surprise; apparently he had just come to open it for him, and searched for a street sign.

He recognized the name. They were in a part of town where he wouldn't have been able to afford a flat.

"Mr. Holmes is waiting for you inside, Sir" the driver interrupted his thoughts, sounding nervous, and Greg realized that Mycroft must have ordered that he be brought her as quickly as possible.

He smiled to reassure the man and followed him through the glass doors of the building.

If Greg wasn't already concerned, he certainly would have been now.

Mycroft was standing in the lobby, Anthea next to him.

Not many people would have been able to read the British Government, but Greg saw the worry in his eyes.

"Tell me everything" he said instead of a greeting. Normally, Mycroft would have raised an eyebrow, said "Good morning" and expected him to answer in a similar fashion, but he didn't, and it was another indicator for how serious the situation was.

"This" he raised his right hand and indicated the building with his umbrella "is a top-secret research facility."

He didn't bother to add that Greg wasn't to ever mention its existence to anyone. He knew the DI too well to think it necessary.

"Sherlock and John were investigating some strange incidents involving persons who had been paid by the head scientist for unknown services, and who showed up on the streets disorientated and unable to say what had happened to them."

"Why didn't you simply interview the scientist?"

Mycroft didn't answer and Greg sighed. The man was the head scientist of a secret lab, he had to have connections. Mycroft needed proof if he wanted to go against him, and Sherlock and John had been trying to find said proof.

"But if he gave them money – " he said anyway.

"The existence of the payments wasn't considered good enough evidence" Mycroft answered with contempt in his voice.

Greg didn't know who'd been protecting the scientist, but he was certain they would soon find themselves regretting it.

"Sherlock and John – "

"Entered the lab at half-past two" Mycroft finished. He didn't have to add that they had broken in.

"The scientist – "

"Doctor Trevelyan has disappeared as well".

It was the first time the man's name had been mentioned, and Greg wasn't surprised that he'd never heard it before. Whatever he had been researching, it wasn't supposed to be known.

"You are looking for him?" he asked, although he already knew the answer. Protected or not, Mycroft Holmes' brother had disappeared, and he wouldn't allow the suspect to escape.

Mycroft was silent, Greg was growing impatient. He had to do something, not stand here and theorize.

"So what do we know?"

"We know they entered the building" Mycroft answered. He shot Anthea a glance. She shook her head without looking up from her phone. Sherlock and John hadn't shown up anywhere.

"Sherlock would want to search the biggest lab" Greg stated.

Mycroft nodded, turned around and led the way.

The DI followed him, wondering where Sherlock and John could be – where they could have been brought. It would not be easy to capture them both.

"Any evidence of a struggle?"

"No. There is no evidence they were here".

Mycroft kept his voice smooth as always, but there was a hint of fear that Greg picked up, and it caused him to almost feel panicked.

That the British Government hadn't found any trace of them, not even in the place where they were known to have been last, was not good.

The lab was big and airy. And, as Mycroft had indicated, there was no sign of a struggle.

Greg could only look around and wonder why he wasn't out there, searching for them. The answer was obvious, of course; they didn't know where they should be looking.

"What was he working on?" he eventually asked. They could investigate Trevelyan. Sherlock and John had been after him, and maybe it would offer them a clue.

Mycroft led him to the scientist's office without a word.

Greg took a look at the files that were laid out on the desk. Either Trevelyan didn't like computers, or he was confident that he would be protected by whoever had helped him gain the position he held in the first place. He was not concealing what he was researching, only how he was doing it – Greg found out by reading the little he could understand.

It wasn't much, but it helped him form a theory that was so crazy that he turned to Mycroft and asked, "Trevelyan has been trying to find a way into parallel universes?"


	7. Chapter 7

Greg honestly didn't know why he was surprised. Sherlock had done enough strange experiments, and he had entered 221B more than once to find a body part on the table. A scientist looking for a way to get into parallel universes wasn't that strange, he supposed.

Then he realized that there was a half-formed suspicion at the back of his mind, and he drew in a deep breath.

"Is it –" he stopped because it sounded incredibly even in his head. Sherlock and John in a parallel universe, Trevelyan perhaps having escaped into one as well...

It wasn't possible – was it? The DI remembered Sherlock's favourite saying.

_Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._

And Mycroft Holmes had spent the last hours eliminating the impossible.

Greg swallowed, trying to order his thoughts. Sherlock and John might be in a parallel universe. The one who'd sent them there might be with them, or he might have sought refuge in a different one; if the DI remembered correctly the few things he'd caught about this sort of thing over the years in books and movies, there was more than one parallel universe.

And if he was right –

"Is there – " he cleared his throat. "Is there a way to be sure? And – and to bring them back?"

"I have people working on it" Mycroft replied, staring at the papers.

And Greg understood.

Mycroft hadn't called him here to investigate; he behaved differently than he normally did. While he was still leading the search for his brother and was as diligent as always, he let his worry show.

Mycroft hadn't called him here to investigate.

Mycroft had called him here because he needed a friend.

He cleared his throat again, unsure of how to proceed. Their friendship, if one could call it that, consisted mostly of long silences and glasses of brandy, shared after a long day. When Mycroft called him because of Sherlock, he was always short and to the point.

Greg had no idea what he could do or say to comfort him.

He decided to do what they always did. Work.

He grabbed a file from the desk.

"We might as well try to figure out what makes this guy work".

He could have imagined it, but as Mycroft stepped next to him and took a file of his own, he thought he saw a grateful smile on his lips.

What they found wasn't encouraging. Greg didn't understand everything – there were a lot of mathematical equations and scientific articles that told him that Trevelyan had to be good at his job, but nothing more – and he concentrated on the scientist's personal notes. A half-sentence at the side of a page; words scribbled beneath a report about an experiment gone wrong. He had often learned more about suspects through small signs like these, evidence they didn't know they had left behind, that they hadn't considered important, than through interviews. Remarks like the ones he was looking at where often added only half-consciously or as an afterthought, in a hurry, and they revealed what type of person they were dealing with.

What he found made him certain that Sherlock and John had gone up against a dangerous man indeed.

There was an article written by a professor of a well-known university. Trevelyan had supplied an introduction in which he praised the man, but his notes told Greg that he thought the man was an "imbecile" who didn't "see the possibilities that might open up if we were to conduct – "

He put the file down when he realized what he was reading. The professor had been researching radioactive poisoning, and Trevelyan thought that it might be best to inject people with it and then try different cures.

He'd added to his own notes, in a different pen, "accident victims not advisable – history must not be compromised."

And he definitely didn't like the professor. "Imbecile" was the nicest word he'd used.

"He is – "

"Dangerous" Mycroft finished. Naturally, in the time Greg had read one file, he had gone through three.

"Why is he working for –"

"He is brilliant" the British Government interrupted him. "And his results have always been outstanding."

Greg rubbed his face with his hands. He did understand the reasoning, but he wouldn't agree with it. Sherlock was brilliant too, and he brought exceptional results. But if Greg hadn't known, hadn't felt that somewhere deep down a good man was buried he would never have offered him to help on the cases.

"He doesn't care much for others" he answered. "Might explain his wish to enter parallel universes. Perhaps he wants to interact with himself? That's what parallel universes are, right?"

Mycroft frowned.

"I do not think he is looking for company. There is no reason he shouldn't find it here."

"But what then?"

He knew that he wouldn't like Mycroft's answer. It was written plainly on the other man's face.

"According to the files I read, he believes that by influencing a parallel universe, one can also set things off-balance in one's own."

* * *

Sherlock and John were sitting in a cab with Bill and the doctor's counterpart on the way to St. Bart's – Greg had decided not to go with them and had left with a mumbled assurance that he'd "try to find the guy John was so keen on" – when Bill's phone rang.

"Mike. I forgot to tell him I wouldn't be coming over – " He picked up. Sherlock didn't turn his head, but John could only listen open-mouthed to the conversation.

"Hello. Yeah, sorry, I won't be coming over – something happened... No, we're safe. Yes, I promise. Going to St. Bart's, in fact. I will call you."

He laughed.

"Don't worry. Bye".

He hung up and John looked at Sherlock. The consulting detective didn't appear to have even noticed the phone call.

The doctor bit his lip.

Sherlock's and Mycroft's relationship was complicated, more so than his and Harry's, and that was saying a lot. He had never heard the consulting detective talking so care-free to his brother, so obviously comfortable with their conversation, and he never would.

The British Government and his best friend had got along better since he'd returned, but they would never have this, this easy camaraderie; Bill had laughed at something Mycroft had said at the end of their talk, most likely a joke about this world's John, and he had never seen Sherlock truly smile at his brother.

He wondered if he should say something, but he was certain Sherlock would have preferred to have this conversation in private, if at all.

Bill caught John's eye and smiled.

"He's a bit overprotective".

Sherlock snorted, and John couldn't help the chuckle that escaped him either. Some things never changed.

"I guess he told you to watch out?"

John's, the consulting detective's voice came as a surprise to the doctor, who had almost forgotten about his presence. He detected hostility in the question – not much, but enough to tell him that his counterpart and Mike didn't like each other.

He wasn't surprised. He'd rather not think about the time Harry came over for tea and Sherlock deduced her "promiscuous lifestyle".

"He's concerned, that is all".

For the first time, John could hear a warning not to go further in Bill's voice, and he hoped the other man would understand as well. Sherlock always did, even if he sometimes went on just to spite him.

John only made a non-committal noise in reply, and the doctor relaxed into his seat.

He was aware that Sherlock shot him a look, most likely not understanding why it was important to him that their counterparts didn't fight. John wasn't sure that he'd be able to explain it if he'd asked.

But – even if these were different versions of themselves, even if they were different people – he couldn't stand it. Couldn't stand the thought that they might fight, that one of them might move out. Because he had never contemplated moving out, not once, neither before nor after Sherlock died and returned. True, he hadn't been able to stay in the flat for a while after his "death" but he had come back, had come back to the smiley and the skull, the dusty chemistry equipment that Mrs. Hudson had not had the heart to give away, the violin, and had unconsciously waited for his best friend to return.

He wasn't interested in parallel universes where this wasn't normal.

The cab stopped and he looked out of the window at St. Bart's.

"We cannot go in all at once" John announced. "The cab driver obviously didn't care that we looked alike, but our acquaintances might see it differently".

Sherlock nodded.

"You go first, we'll follow through the back entrance."

They waited exactly three minutes in a comfortable silence, because John couldn't think of anything to say. To many thoughts were crowding his brain. But, after they had exited the cab, Sherlock gave his shoulder a brief squeeze, and John realized he understood.

As they walked towards the lab Bill had told him Jim worked in, thankfully not running into anyone, John took deep breaths.

He had thought that he was prepared to look into Jim Moriarty's face.

He wasn't.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Easter!

Sherlock opened the door without knocking, finding Bill talking to Jim while John was standing in the background, looking at his phone.

This time, sentiment didn't surprise him.

He had known it would be difficult to see Jim Moriarty again.

The man who had almost cost him his life. The man who had fascinated him more than anyone else, before he had been alone in a foreign country and realized what playing the game had cost him. The man who was working here in IT and happily explaining to Sherlock's counterpart that he was going to ask "her" out today –

_Grew up in Sussex, studied in London, likes to read, doesn't have pets..._

Everything about the man before him was normal. Ordinary. If he had met him on the street, Sherlock would have deduced him and then quickly deleted his existence from his mind palace.

But this was Jim Moriarty. He shook his head to clear his thought at the same time the man looked away from Bill and saw them.

His mouth fell open.

"So you weren't kidding."

"I told you I wasn't."

"I thought it was one of John's experiments..."

Bill chuckled. "Can't blame you for that."

Their easy conversation made Sherlock's skin crawl. He could remind himself that this wasn't the consulting criminal as often as he wanted – he still wanted to shoot the IT tech, wanted him dead, because there was still a corner in his mind palace where he lived on, was chained in a cell, and sometimes, at night, when everything was too quiet and not even the violin could keep the memories at bay, he crept out and taunted Sherlock –

Jim moved forward and, much like Bill had done, reached out to touch him.

This time, John didn't allow it.

Before he could react, his best friend had come to stand in front of him and punched the other man in the face.

John couldn't take it. The moment he saw Jim reach out, he hit him. He reacted without thinking, he only knew he had to protect Sherlock, because Moriarty was standing in front of him.

It was difficult enough to watch Bill talk so amicably with him; when they'd entered, he'd been smiling and shaking his head at something the man had said.

And then he moved, and John couldn't allow it. This man wouldn't touch Sherlock.

The noise his body made as he fell to the floor was satisfying.

He would have hit him again if Sherlock's hand on his arm hadn't stopped him.

During the next few seconds, Bill shouted out "Jim!" as he fell down, his hands on his nose, Sherlock pushed John behind him, both to stop Bill from attacking his friend as to put a barrier between the doctor and Jim, and the other John calmly watched the scene before him.

Bill dragged Jim's hands away from his face, obviously concerned.

"You're bleeding – hopefully it's not broken..."

He glared at John.

"I know he was a criminal in your universe, but that gives you no right to punch him".

Sherlock heard the intake of breath behind him that indicated that John was about to scream, and he turned around and lay a hand on his shoulder.

"John..."

"Sherlock, he – "

"I know". He paused before repeating, "I know".

John's hands were clenched into fists, and his breathing was laboured, but as he looked into Sherlock's face, he slowly calmed down and eventually, he was confident that the doctor could keep his calm.

He looked at Bill, who had helped Jim on a chair and was cleaning the blood of his nose that John apparently hadn't broken after all.

"We apologize".

"You better" the other man grumbled.

"That was unexpected" Jim said. "You're strong". He shook his head and, although Bill tried to stop him, stood up.

"Why did you do it? Probably because – I was a criminal, Bill said. What did I do?"

John drew in a deep breath, but, to Sherlock's relief, he didn't answer.

"It is complicated" he replied curtly.

Jim raised his hands.

"Sorry. Didn't want to annoy you."

"It's not – "

John's voice sounded foreign. He cleared his throat and stepped forward so that he was standing next to his best friend. Sherlock couldn't help but notice that he was still tense, ready to jump at any moment, and since he still had his gun with him, this was rather disconcerting.

He could have told John to leave, to wait outside, but there was no way the doctor would do so with Moriarty in the room. And, to be honest, Sherlock preferred him there.

He looked into Jim's eyes and reminded himself again that this wasn't Moriarty.

"It is all rather confusing" Sherlock eventually said when it became clear that John wouldn't finish his sentence.

"Yes it is" Jim said, "Kind of cool, though". His eyes widened with excitement. "Parallel universes? It's great!"

Bill laughed.

"You'd never have forgiven me if we hadn't come to see you, right?"

Neither Sherlock nor John pointed out the stupidity of the statement, since it was clear that Jim would never have known anything about them if they hadn't needed his help.

Jim nodded excitedly and apparently wanted to step towards them again, but looked at John and thought better of it.

Sherlock heard the doctor sigh next to him and watched him walk over to Jim. This time, he didn't appear to want to hit him, so the consulting detective allowed it.

Jim flinched slightly when John stood before him, and the doctor illogically felt something like guilt. No, not irrationally. This wasn't Moriarty. If anything, the fear in his eyes proved that. The consulting criminal had never been afraid of John; he'd watched with glee as his employees decked the doctor in explosives, had sent him an uncaring glance in the courtroom.

This man didn't want to be hit again, and he'd talked to Bill like John would have talked to an old friend.

This wasn't Moriarty. This was a patient. This was someone who had been hit. Bill had cleaned his face, but they had to make sure he wasn't injured.

"I'm a doctor. Let me see your nose".

"It's alright; he's nice when he's not punching people" Bill said and patted Jim's shoulder.

The other man relaxed and allowed John to take a look at his face.

"Nothing's broken" he announced.

"I'm sorry" he then added, because only Sherlock had apologized until now, and he felt he had to as well.

"No worries. It's not the first time I got punched." Jim waved a hand in the air and then pocked John in the chest.

Surprised, he stepped back.

Jim laughed.

"Sorry, I just wanted to see if you were real."

"Now that this interesting display is over, can we come to the point?" John the consulting detective asked.

"Come on, John, even you can't be bored" Jim said.

"I am not bored. I am –"

"Impatient?" Bill supplied. John frowned, and the two friends laughed.

John looked at Sherlock who shrugged his shoulders. He could only hope that eventually Jim would ask what they wanted.

He did so. After John had once again reminded them that they were here for a reason.

"And why couldn't you just google it?"

"We had to break into a lab that didn't exist officially" Sherlock explained. There was no reason to assume that here, research that would be considered dangerous to the public wouldn't be kept secret.

"So you want me to hack in a Government database".

"Yes."

Jim smiled.

"And I thought you'd ask me to do something challenging".

He sat down in front of his computer and started to work, lost in his own world.

"It might take a while" Bill said. "Anyone want coffee?"

"Yes, please" John answered thankfully. "Sherlock?"

The consulting detective nodded, and after Bill had made sure John wanted a cup to, he and the doctor went to get coffee. John needed the walk to clear his head and if anyone should see them, he'd just assume that they were working on a case – as long as Sherlock and the other John stayed in the room, no one would know.

"So..." Bill began as they walked through an empty corridor, "How did you two meet?"

"I was an army doctor. I got shot and invalided home – I had a psychosomatic limp, a tremor in my left hand and couldn't work, so I needed a flatmate. A friend introduced me to Sherlock. We've been living together ever since".

He didn't want to mention Moriarty or the years spent apart. He wasn't lying – neither of them had been really living during that time.

He was so caught up in his memories that he didn't realize Bill looking at him expectantly until they were standing in front of the coffee machine.

He realized how impolite he was and asked, "And you?"

Bill's smile was somewhat pained.

"I was working in a lab – taking blood samples, testing them, that kind of thing. One day, a DI brought John because he had solved a case".

"He had his blood tested because he solved a case?" John asked. He knew where this was going, but he didn't want to hear it.

Bill's laconic "Well – he had walked unto the crime scene and known who the murderer was in an instant, but he was clearly high" confirmed his fears.

"And you – "

The other man passed him a hot cup and shook his head.

"I don't know why, but there was this connection – I didn't have any problem with him deducing my life, not that there was much to deduce. But still – I wasn't angry. And he was surprised."

"So you moved in with him?"

"Not really, not at first – " Bill looked down and bit his lip. "It wasn't – the police wanted him to work with them, but only if he was sober. And it took a while. But he solved cases anyway, and he called me when he needed someone. And, to be honest – I was bored. I was bored, and there was this connection, and I'd wanted to move out anyway – "

"Move out?"

"Like I said, Mycroft can be overprotective. And I wanted something different, for a change". He grinned. "I'm an adrenaline junkie."

John tried to grin back, but didn't quite succeed. He had never really admitted to himself that part of what had drawn him to Sherlock when they had been introduced had been a need for excitement, a craving to feel the blood rush through his veins. He had never allowed himself to dwell on this aspect of his personality. Maybe because it made him less ordinary, and he had always been content to be normal.

It didn't matter now, though, because he was living with Sherlock and no normal human being would ever consider it.

And, really, he couldn't have cared less.

It was this realization that turned his grin genuine.

"I understand" he told him.

"So I guess your psychosomatic limp wasn't from PTSD?"

John frowned.

"I'm not Sherlock, but I'm not dumb either" Bill continued indignantly.

"I didn't mean to – it's just – you are not Sherlock" John apologized, aware of how strange he sounded.

Bill laughed. He did that rather often, John noted, and he would have nothing against it if Sherlock had done so too. It wasn't that the consulting detective didn't laugh; it was that his mirth was seldom genuine. When it was, he chuckled or smirked.

"Trust me" the lab tech said, "It's weird for me as well. I never thought I'd see the day when John bought his own coffee".

"You still haven't" the doctor pointed out.

"No, I guess not. Say, does Sherlock make tea?"

"He has made tea on a few memorable occasions".

Bill stared at him in shock, and this time, they laughed together.

The text alert of Bill's phone chimed and he pulled it out.

"He's probably wondering where his coffee is..." he mumbled before raising his eyebrows.

"Oh."

"What?" John demanded.

Bill looked up.

"Did I mention a certain overprotective older brother?"


	9. Chapter 9

Jim occasionally muttered to himself, and for a few minutes, these were the only words spoken in the room.

It was Sherlock who broke the silence. While they were waiting, they might as well talk; and an opportunity to speak to the inhabitant of a parallel universes didn't present itself every day.

"What are you working on?"

It was the only thing he could think of asking John – he had no doubt that his doctor would have objected, but this was a consulting detective who was obviously troubled by a case, judging by his frowns as kept checking if he had received any messages.

John looked up from his phone, scrutinized Sherlock and slowly put it in his pocket.

"A strange case – a man murdered in a locked room."

Sherlock could have named at least seven possibilities, but he didn't want to theorize without data. He waited patiently (John would have been proud of him) for the other man to continue.

"There are no clues – and yet he's dead. I am currently running his blood for poisons, but it is taking a while".

Sherlock knew how frustrating it was to wait for evidence.

"And furthermore, most of these idiots will not do what I tell them to, even if I could solve the case in a minimum of the time they require" he continued, "and this morning Bill didn't allow me to finish an experiment because I "used his favourite t-shirt" and them simply stormed out – "

Sherlock wouldn't admit it, but John's monologue amused him a little. It reminded him of the small disagreements about experiments he and his blogger had had over the years.

"I knew he would come back, of course" he stated, but Sherlock heard the slight worry in his voice that no one else would have picked up on. He heard it because he knew the feeling, knew that somewhere in his mind palace, every time John stormed out, he wondered if he would return. He bit his lip and studied the floor. It wasn't a pleasant feeling.

He looked up to find John looking at him with fascination, his eyes sparkling.

"Is your friend unreasonably attached to certain unappealing pieces of clothing too?"

Sherlock nodded, remembering the day he set John's jumper on fire because he wanted to know how fast certain materials burned. He hadn't come back for the whole afternoon, and then only to announce that he was going out for a pint with Greg. When he'd finally returned, he had finally forgiven Sherlock, but had strictly forbidden him to ever use his clothing for experiments again.

"I never understood it" he replied. John shook his head.

"Me neither. It is illogical to derive comfort from fibres".

There was a pause, and Sherlock, who didn't want to pry because he didn't want to force him share information of his case if he wasn't comfortable with it, was starting to think that he'd begin typing on his phone again, when the other consulting detective asked, "Do you want to see the pictures from the crime scene?"

He sounded reluctant, but Sherlock couldn't blame him. He wasn't fond of admitting he needed help either.

They solved the case within ten minutes, to their surprise. As it turned out, it wasn't necessary to know which poison killed the man – it became clear that his brother had murdered him once they had discussed the state of the window and the distance between the door and the carpet.

Sherlock recognized that he might have underestimated John Watson – although not concerning his intellectual abilities.

It had been a long time since he had slowly started to become more human – or at least that was what ordinary people would say. He had simply decided that sentiment wasn't always a defect.

John clearly hadn't had the experiences Sherlock had, and not only that – he wasn't the consulting detective Sherlock had been. He was the consulting detective John Watson could have become, if – well, if he had lived in another universe. He was colder, more systematic than Sherlock had ever been – only logical, considering that his blogger had been in the army. Even if this John Watson hadn't served queen and country, he still had everything in him to become a soldier. Discipline. The coldness to take a life because it was his duty.

In a way, he was more like Mycroft than Sherlock. But on the other hand –

John's face was open now, and Sherlock thought that he might experience the same thing as him – meeting someone who understood him.

His doctor was his best friend. Mycroft knew him. But he had never before met someone who simply understood what it was like to be himself. His brother considered him stupid, and would probably have scoffed if Sherlock had attempted to explain to him how his mind palace worked.

John Watson, though – it became clear soon that he had a mind palace as well, although he immediately corrected him. "It's an apartment building".

Sherlock could only shrug his shoulders.

They were so busy talking about their cases – John was in the middle of telling him about a pearl who had been hidden in a bust – that they didn't hear the door open.

They only looked up when they heard someone ask, "Bill?"

He turned around to find Mycroft looking at him.

Not the brother he knew; this one was wearing a jumper and jeans and, he remembered, was called "Mike".

He was also staring at him, which probably had to do with him discussing the case rather passionately with John.

Mike shook his head and smiled.

"Just wanted to see you" he announced, strolling into the room. "After all, you sounded rather angry when you called this morning".

He greeted Sherlock with a hug. He should have expected it – or at least been prepared for something like it – but he froze and Mike pulled back, frowning.

"I knew you weren't fine – " apparently only then realizing John was in the room, he greeted him with a short "Hello". His eyes went to Jim, but he obviously decided that he wouldn't hear him even if he tried to make himself heard, so he didn't attempt it.

"So what did he do to your t-shirt?" he asked instead, confirming Sherlock's suspicions that he and John didn't get on. It wasn't surprising, remembering his and Harry's brief meetings.

"Actually, he needed it for an experiment" he replied. He could hear John moved behind him and deduced that he was sending a text to Bill. It would be easier to convince Mike of the truth if his brother was there, so he decided to simply try and calm his fears for the time being. "I realized that I had behaved illogically."

"Realized that you had behaved – "

Mike glared at John, instantly suspicious.

"Did you give him anything? Wasn't the last time enough, when he heard voices for two hours?"

"I needed to know what effects the drug had –"

"Forget it." Mike grabbed Sherlock's arms and dragged him towards the door. "We are leaving".

Sherlock shook himself free and ignored the flash of pain in the other man's eyes.

"I am staying".

"Bill – " Mike reached out again, but Sherlock, out of habit, moved away. The other man stood still and let his hand drop to his side.

"Are you sure you are fine? Why am I asking, you're obviously not. Come on, you can stay with me for a bit..."

At this moment, the door opened and John and Bill entered.

Mike froze. His eyes wandered from Bill to Sherlock, then back again. He realized who his real brother was and quickly walked over to him.

"What is going on?" he asked, enunciating every syllable, with a calm politeness that Sherlock knew very well. From Bill's reaction – he took a step back and shot his friend, who was watching them from the same corner he'd been standing in since they arrived at the lab – it was clear that Mike usually used this tone when he was angry.

"They showed up this morning. Greg brought them. They come from a parallel universe – "

"What?"

"I know it is difficult" John answered him, putting down the cups he'd been carrying on a table and smiling reassuringly. "We were as surprised as you are."

Mike blinked.

"John? John Watson?"

"Yes, but not from this universe" he explained patiently.

"Just when I thought your life couldn't get weirder" Mike said, looking at his brother.

"It's not my fault they are here."

Before Mike could turn around, he added, "It's not John's either".

Sherlock wouldn't be surprised to learn that they had had this conversation, or a similar one, several times already. There had been something frantic about Mike's attempts to get him out of the lab. He disapproved of his brother's friendship with the consulting detective, probably because it put him in danger.

"We are working on it" Bill stated, "Jim is trying to find an expert on parallel universes".

"Where?"

"In a secret database?" Bill tried, guiltily.

Mike sighed.

"What did you get yourself into –"

"I found someone" Jim interrupted. He turned his head and smiled. "Hey, Mike".

"Hello, Jim".

John wordlessly passed Sherlock his cup just as Bill was doing the same, and he decided that Mycroft obviously approving of Jim's and Bill's friendship, but not Bill's and John's was the strangest change they had yet encountered.


	10. Chapter 10

"What did you find?" the other John asked, quickly moving across the lab and peering over Jim's shoulder.

The IT tech ignored the invasion of his personal space and said, "Doctor Pike. Lives not far from here – "

"About five minutes in a cab" John interrupted. "Do you know what exactly he's working on?"

Jim grimaced. "It's very hush-hush, and I can't understand some of the words, but he has done some research involving parallel universes – amidst other stuff I don't want to think about."

"And if he's working with Trevelyan?" the doctor suggested. It sounded crazy, but it was possible that the scientist had been to this or other parallel worlds before and met colleagues.

"We will have to risk it" Sherlock said simply. "We have to get home, and an expert is our best chance."

John remembered a time when the consulting detective wouldn't have used the word "home" so easily and nodded.

"He would be at work at this time of day..." Bill began.

"Unless he has just finished an experiment and needs to rest" John interrupted him impatiently. "We will have to check out both his workplace and his home. Jim?"

He had already printed out the addresses and John snatched them from his hands.

He left the room; Bill would have followed him if Mike hadn't stood in his way.

"Mike – " he looked into his brother's eyes.

"No".

"I am coming with you" the other man stated. "You are in the company of yourself from another dimension, and you're going to see an expert on the subject. You might end up getting thrown into a different universe if I don't look after you".

One look into the man's face made Sherlock realize that he wouldn't be dissuaded from accompanying them. He knew his brother's features, and this was the expression that told him any resistance was fruitless. Or, rather, had told him when they had been children and Mycroft hadn't yet been able to disguise all of his emotions.

Without wanting to, he remembered years of bad blood and a betrayal, and he knew that this Mycroft would never do the same.

But Bill wasn't him, he reasoned. He shouldn't be angry because someone else would make a different decision. Mike and Mycroft just happened to share the same face.

Bill sighed. "Alright, then." He called out to Sherlock and John, "Are you coming?"

The consulting detective snorted. "We are hardly going to stay here".

Even Mike laughed at that.

"You really are like him".

Sherlock didn't understand why this comment upset him.

He left the lab so quickly that John had to jog after him.

"So we are going to break into a secret lab or a flat once again?"

"I didn't see the address" Sherlock answered, somewhat irritated that John hadn't shown it to him, "It might well be a house."

John looked like he wanted to reply, but decided against it.

The doctor was worried. He had seen the looks his best friend had thrown Bill and his brother.

It was one thing to know that they got on better than Sherlock and Mycroft ever would. To see it, however, was different.

At least, he reflected cynically, he wouldn't have to see John and Harry interact with each other; it didn't seem probable that the consulting detective had a better relationship with his sister than he.

But Mycroft and Sherlock –

Mike and Bill were comfortable around each other, the older brother clearly concerned for his sibling; not that Mycroft wasn't, but Mike appeared to act on his worry in a normal way. John couldn't blame him for not liking the consulting detective. He wouldn't have expected his family to like Sherlock either, if he'd had one. And yet, Mike still came with them and tolerated John's presence, which told him that he respected Bill's opinions and trusted his judgement.

Once, shortly after Sherlock had returned, when thick tension had been hanging in the air between them, and John hadn't been sure if he should be screaming or not, if he should be crying or not, if he should demand explanations or not, his best friend had begun to talk about how he'd eventually contacted Mycroft, maybe in some ill-fate attempt to divert John from the fact that he hadn't called him, and somewhere in this night, Sherlock had let slip that his big brother had always considered him stupid and that he'd been surprised that he had managed to convince the British Government he was dead.

John knew, without having been told, without having to think about it, that Mike had never called his brother stupid. He wondered how Sherlock felt about it.

Judging by the fact that he walked slower to the cab than he would normally have under the circumstances – they were in a parallel universe, and while John wasn't enjoying the situation as much as Jim, he was excited and Sherlock should have been elated. But he wasn't.

Sherlock was tense, and obviously desiring to return home, even if it meant that he would have to face Mycroft and then try to chase the boredom away with the two left feet in their fridge.

They were almost at the cab when John realized. He couldn't believe he hadn't figured it out sooner.

Sherlock was in a strange place, and at the moment, they had no idea how to get home.

It was almost like they couldn't. Almost because they would, of course – John had to believe they would – but still –

Sherlock must be reminded of the three years he hadn't been able to return to England.

Sherlock entered the cab – a bigger one than they were used to, but it had to hold five people – without giving John a chance to talk. The doctor sighed. It would be difficult to get Sherlock alone, without any of these universes' counterparts hearing what they were saying.

"Langdale Pike" John began to read from the document Jim had printed out as soon as they sat, "has made quite the name for himself, not only because of his often controversial and unusual approaches to certain subjects, but also due to his ability to spread rumours about the colleagues he doesn't like".

"What?" John asked, baffled.

His counterpart waved his right hand in the air to make him stop talking, then continued.

"Three scientists who were awarded more than one award over the years had to leave London in the last few months because of certain unsavoury details of their private lives that had become known in the City. Apparently, a few people think Pike is responsible, but since he has a genius, he is allowed to continue working for the Government..."

"I hope Jim covered his trail" Bill remarked drily. "I can't imagine this information comes from any normal website".

"If it did, we wouldn't have needed him in the first place" John snapped back, and while Sherlock could tell he was annoyed that he hadn't been able to hack into the database himself, he was not as irritated as he would have been if someone else had made the comment.

His and Bill's friendship wasn't like Sherlock's and John's, but that didn't mean it wasn't strong.

"He hasn't published anything about his work on parallel universes, and he hasn't even told the Secret Service, who are the ones to fund this project, much".

"He must be a genius" Mike said, "if they allow him to do what he wants with their money. You have anything like it in your universe?"

He automatically addressed Sherlock, once more showing that the brothers were close, and the consulting detective contemplated the trust in Mike's eyes, that he had simply earner by sharing the face with his sibling, for a moment before replying.

"Trevelyan, who is the one who sent us her, has the same freedom. It was the reason we were forced to break into his lab".

John could have pointed out that they would have broken into it eventually anyway, but chose not to.

The drive to the lab didn't take long; they had decided that it was more likely that the scientist would be at hid place of work.

To their surprise, they were told that Doctor Pike hadn't shown up today, although he had been planning to start a new experiment. His assistant had been trying to contact him, but to no avail, and was about to drive to his flat. They assured him that this wasn't necessary, and he seemed to come to the conclusion that they were working for the Secret Service and quickly agreed with them before leaving.

None of them had to say out loud that this wasn't good news. Sherlock shot John a glance before returning to their cab.

John knew there was something wrong the moment they stepped foot in the flat. He would have recognized the stale smell that hung in the air anywhere.

"I have to admit this complicates matters" his counterpart said, kneeling down beside Langdale Pike's body.


	11. Chapter 11

John watched as both Sherlock and the other consulting detective looked over the body. Eventually, his counterpart stood up and slowly moved around the room, starting at the fireplace. Sherlock meanwhile had spotted something under the man's nails and was pulling it carefully out.

John narrowed his eyes. There were definitely differences between their approaches at investigation.

There was an order to how John Watson did things. He walked across the room in a specific way, taking note of all that seemed important before moving on. He was more in control than Sherlock, who saw everything at once and began to deduce immediately.

John heard a slight sound behind him and quickly turned around, but found that he had no reason to worry; Mike was leaning against the wall, Bill's hand on his shoulder. He looked pale.

He caught John's eyes and smiled weakly.

"I'm not fond of the smell".

The doctor nodded and was about to ask if he wanted a glass of water when John announced, "Then you should better leave, unless you – "

"Can you wait outside?" Bill interrupted. In a quieter tone, he added "Sorry".

Mike pushed himself off the wall and raised a hand when his brother tried to steady him.

"Don't worry. I assume we shouldn't call the police?"

"If we do, the Secret Service will take over the investigation" John answered courtly.

John looked at Sherlock and saw that his friend was thinking the same thing as he: Mycroft might be the most dangerous man they had ever met, but having a brother who was the British Government had his upsides too. In this world, the consulting detective had to go up against the Secret Service when he wanted to take a look at one of their cases. True, in their universe it involved negotiations with Mycroft (and complaints from Sherlock when he was once again forced to take a case in return) but it made things easier that his elder brother could simply do as he pleased.

"Don't you have anyone – "

"The Secret Service considers my job as "dangerous to the public safety" John interrupted Sherlock, obviously annoyed. "It doesn't stop them from turning to me when they are unable to solve a problem, though".

The consulting detective nodded before asking abruptly, "Will he be fine?"

It took both John and Bill a moment to realize he was talking about Mycroft. The doctor was surprised; in the next second, he was ashamed that he was. Parallel universe or not, this man looked like Sherlock's brother, and he had probably never seen Mycroft look pale and weak. Bill was unsuccessfully trying to hide his grin, telling John that he had been concerned about his and Mike's relationship and that he might be more uncomfortable with the situation than he'd led on.

"He'll be okay. He's just a little sensitive when it comes to blood..." his voice carried the tone of a younger brother who had teased his sibling with his weakness quite a lot in the past and would continue to do so, and John wondered why they had to travel to a parallel universe to find a functioning sibling relationship in their environment. He thought of Sherlock being worried about Mycroft, in this dimension or another, he thought of Harry. He hadn't called her in weeks – closer to a month, actually.

"How long do you think we have until the assistant gets suspicious?" John's voice broke through his thoughts and he glanced at Sherlock to see his friend ponder the question for a few moments before replying, "Based on how nervous he was, about an hour. He will then call the police because his concern for Doctor Pike is stronger than his fear of being targeted by the Secret Service."

"Sentiment?"

"Sentiment" Sherlock confirmed before John could, and the doctor was struck by how much the consulting detective had changed since they'd met.

"We have to move fast. John?"

He stepped over to the body and kneeled down.

Doctor Pike's throat had been cut – but there were cuts on his arms that spoke of a struggle. He must have fought for his life.

Bill had put on gloves and was walking into the kitchen.

He answered their unspoken question with a simple, "I work in a lab. I'm good at finding small stuff".

He was looking for clues he might not be able to interpret, but was nonetheless able to find. So that was what he did on crime scenes. Sherlock would have been surprised if he hadn't had a special talent . Neither he nor this world's John liked their ordinary people too ordinary.

"John?"

"He's been dead for about three hours – whoever his attacker was, he must have been strong. He's quite possibly injured too – "

"He lived alone" Sherlock said, "has done so for at least two years – "

"Hasn't been in a relationship during this time" John finished. "Highly intelligent loner – "

"and it is unlikely that he worked with Trevelyan".

"Why does that make it unlikely? If Trevelyan is as intelligent as he was, and if Pike was for some reason angry at his employers, maybe because he didn't feel appreciated enough – " John argued, but his counterpart shook his head and stood up. He pointed to the desk under the window of the living room. It was clean.

"So?"

"His laptop is still there. If he worked with Trevelyan, there had to be some form of communication between them, email most likely being one of them. If Trevelyan killed Pike and they were working together, he would have destroyed any evidence that they knew each other. It is possible that Trevelyan only came to Pike today, expecting help. A visit from another universe would certainly explain why Pike would risk being late for work. Plus, we know Pike wasn't good at keeping secrets, as long as he profited from telling them to anyone who would listen. And to being proven right that there were in fact parallel universes – "

"In other words" Sherlock continued, "Not only did Pike probably refuse to help Trevelyan, but he our man found himself in risk of being exposed. Whatever his plan may be – if it included revealing himself to the public he would have done it by now."

"What did you find under his fingernails?"

"Dirt" Sherlock replied. "We have to analyze it. It does appear to be more of the colour of dirt usually found south of the Thames, but I can't be sure".

"I found something" Bill called out from the kitchen and they entered. He was scratching something of the surface of the stove. He frowned.

"Some kind of residue".

He put it in a small bag while John looked over the kitchen in the same careful way he had searched the living room.

Sherlock did his own search – far quicker and less methodical, but the doctor found it strangely comforting. He still wasn't used to watching himself, and he doubted he would, and Sherlock's behaviour, so normal, helped him relax.

The consulting detective raised an eyebrow as he saw his colleague once more go through every drawer, even if it didn't promise a lead.

He was content with seeing what was there, deducing everything there was to deduce, and then sweep out to catch the person responsible. He loved the chase almost as much as he loved solving cases, which was one of the reasons he had never complained about legwork unless Mycroft had forced the case upon him.

John Watson had to see everything, check everything. It wasn't that he couldn't tell that nothing was there – Sherlock was reasonably sure of that after having heard his deductions about Pike – but he had to search the whole flat nonetheless simply because he wanted to make sure. Because he was using the methodical approach Sherlock had never considered because there was no need to waste time.

He had to admit that John the consulting detective worked exactly like he would have expected it from his ex-army doctor if he had chosen the profession.

A text alert rang out and Sherlock automatically moved to pull out his phone before he realized it was Bill's.

The other man read the text and called out, "We have to leave. There are three black cars coming this way".

"Mike?"

"Of course. Just like him to keep watch".

They quickly left the flat and took the stairs to the next floor; as John explained, "The members of the Secret Service only care about their mission. They will only look into his flat and nowhere else".

They stood on the landing and, as soon as they heard them open the door to Pike's flat, left.

Mike appeared beside them when they exited the building.

"And, did you find something?" he asked. "I hope you haven't been breaking the law without getting results".

Bill filled him in while John led the way to the next street corner where he called a cab. Sherlock and John were silent as they contemplated whether Pike's death meant that the only person besides Trevelyan who could get them home was gone.


	12. Chapter 12

"I do not think it is advisable for us to return to St. Bart's. The risk that someone saw us would be too great".

"So you are going to look at the evidence on our kitchen table" Bill replied with a sigh that spoke of long suffering. "And telling you that we – well, I – prepare our food there isn't going to change anything".

"We are working on a case" John answered.

The others watched their bickering until Mike inquired, "Do you two have the same problem?"

John smiled. "As a matter of fact, Sherlock doesn't think much about hygiene or the need to keep himself – "

"You know my work is important. Everything else is just transport".

Sherlock still used his old excuse, although they were both aware it was a lie. It had been a lie for some time, probably since he'd met John. The three years he'd spent alone had taught him that, three years of loneliness he hadn't known before, three years of craving for a home he hadn't been aware he possessed until the game had ripped it from him. Now, he appreciated John's efforts to feed him and make him rest, although he still didn't see the necessity.

"Please don't start" Mike interrupted them. He squeezed the bridge of his nose with his right hand and looked at John and Bill, who were still discussing whether or not to use the kitchen table for processing the evidence (despite it being clear that the consulting detective would do whatever he wanted).

"I have quite enough of that without two different versions of them having a fight".

"We are not fighting" Sherlock replied indignantly.

Mike laughed.

"Discussing, then. Just – this is complicated enough."

"We will do our best to keep our discussions to a minimum" he answered drily and looked out of the window.

John shook his head. For all his brilliance, Sherlock often acted like a five-year-old.

Mike's eyes softened at his antics, and John decided that Bill had to be prone to childish outbursts now and then too.

"So, he's a consulting detective" the other man began.

"The only one in the world" John answered automatically before correcting himself, "our world".

"And you are – "

"His best friend and flatmate. And blogger". There were other words he could have used, other descriptions that sat on the tip of his tongue: doctor, cook, babysitter, partner-in-crime. But he didn't want Mike to get the wrong impression, like so many others did when they saw him and Sherlock for the first time.

"I got that, but I meant what you did for a living".

Before Sherlock died, after he'd stopped doing locum work, this would have caused John some embarrassment. He had always loved his work, and he had felt ashamed when he accepted Mycroft's money in order to be able to run after the consulting detective at all times, instead of doing what he had been trained to do.

Then Sherlock had died and John had managed to open his own surgery, like he'd dreamed of when he had been a child.

And it hadn't been enough. Mary hadn't been enough, the life he'd built hadn't been enough.

He remembered the morning he'd woken up, next to the woman he'd discussed marriage with not a week before, and realized he was miserable and that he hadn't got better at all in the past one and a half years.

The day they broke up.

He still had his surgery after that, of course, but still he only went through the motions, living in his memories. After Sherlock returned, he wondered if he hadn't been waiting, if he hadn't unconsciously been sure that the consulting detective would return. It didn't matter, because he was back and this life was all John had ever wanted.

He still got to be a doctor. True, not in the sense he'd once thought – he wasn't treating soldiers wounded in battle, he wasn't prescribing medicine for a cold – but in the way that counted. Often enough, he and Sherlock arrived in time to save a life and he was the one to look after the victim; at other times, he had to clean his best friend's wounds; and he had to examine the bodies.

Their lives were unusual, and more often than not, they were still dependent on Mycroft's money because Sherlock took any case he considered interesting and rarely asked for payment later, but it was everything he could want.

"I used to be an army doctor. I was invalided home and met Sherlock, and now I work with him".

"In other words..." Mike trailed off, his eyes wandering to his brother, who was still trying to convince John that it was important to eat and sleep and keep their flat clean. He didn't have to finish the sentence. If John had had a better relationship with Harry, she would perhaps have been worried about him too.

"Yes" he said slowly, "but I'm happy".

He felt more than saw Sherlock glance at him. They rarely voiced that they were content with their lives; in fact, John had never told the consulting detective what he meant to him, how he had saved him, mostly because he was certain Sherlock already new.

However, it felt good to say it out loud, even if he'd only told Mycroft from a parallel universe that he was happy.

"I can see that" Mike almost whispered. "You two – you are close. He turns around when he doesn't know where you are. He looks concerned when you are angry."

It was impossible to pretend that he didn't hear Mike's unspoken fear that John didn't care as much for Bill as Sherlock for John, and he was about to protest when his best friend decided to answer in his stead.

"It's different. We aren't copies. What they have isn't what we have. But – John wouldn't live with Bill if he didn't care. Believe me".

His voice trembled a little at the end of the sentence, but by the time John turned to him after having looked into Mike's relieved face, he was already staring out the window again.

The rest of the cab ride was spent in silence, John and Bill having finally stopped bickering.

Mike got out of the car with them, and this time, no one commented on it. He was apparently determined to stay, although John, as he passed them, could hear Bill ask, "What about your job?" before he tactfully entered the building to leave them to discuss this on their own.

As he walked through the door, he nearly bumped into Sherlock, and the consulting detective quickly shoved him out again.

"What – "

Sherlock gestured towards the door, and John listened.

"Who was that?"

"A client, Mrs. Hudson. We are working on a new case..."

John continued to explain as the doctor frowned.

"Mrs. Hudson's still here, at least."

Sherlock shrugged.

"As far as I can tell, this universe doesn't follow any specific rules. Trevelyan, I imagine, has a theory on who it works, but we don't possess enough data to – "

"I understand. But do you think it's better to have you standing around here, just a few feet from Bill, than in our – in their flat? Mrs. Hudson could deal with it."

"Our Mrs. Hudson. We don't know this one" Sherlock reminded him. "And think about the cab drivers. None of them reacted to us looking the same. Ordinary people rarely spare the extraordinary more than a passing glance. It is unlikely that anyone will be shocked by us standing here, whereas Mrs. Hudson, who knows that neither John nor Bill have a relative that looks very similar to them, would undoubtedly be confused or even scared."

John recognized the slight fear in his voice as an indication that he didn't want to scare Mrs. Hudson and decided that it might be best to wait until John had sent their landlady back into her flat.

After he had come to this conclusion, he asked, "What do you think about the residue Bill found?" He knew, naturally, that Sherlock wouldn't answer him, or at least say anything different than that he didn't have enough data yet to theorize, but he wanted to distract himself from the hushed conversation of Bill and his brother.

"There are many possibilities" Sherlock replied, confirming his suspicions.

John opened the door and motioned for them to get in.

"She will bring tea in about fifteen minutes" he explained as soon as they'd closed the door of the flat behind them, "but you can simply go into one of our bedrooms while she's here".

Their landlady, despite Sherlock's doubts, didn't seem to have changed much.

John immediately went into the kitchen; a second later, the unmistakeable sound of someone handling chemistry equipment could be heard, and Sherlock joined him.

The doctor knew there was no point in joining them, and Bill wordlessly agreed with him as he let himself fall on the sofa. The doctor was surprised – didn't he work in a lab?

"That could take a while" Bill remarked; Sherlock and John started arguing about which evidence to process first, since they couldn't do both at the same time because the kitchen was too small, and John nodded.

"I hope you don't mind me asking, but – "

Bill laughed.

"It's better to let him look at the evidence first. When he needs help he calls me. And I'm better with blood and DNA anyway. I guess you usually look at the bodies, like you did at Pike's?"

"Yes. Normally, I check in the morgue for anything the police might have missed, but I think that's out of the question here..."

The Secret Service had most likely already sealed off the crime scene, and the police wouldn't be involved in the investigation, if they were like the Secret Service John knew. He doubted that the lack of Mycroft Holmes' would lead to a more open disclosure policy.

"Tell us about Mycroft being the British Government" Bill prompted, either because he had followed the same thought paths as John or because he had decided that teasing his brother would be a good way to pass the time.

When Mike stared, he asked pleasantly, "Did I forget to mention that?"

John had never seen Mycroft look surprised; it was still strange to see him display his emotions so openly.

"I am what?"

Bill made no attempt to conceal his mirth at his brother's confusion and John, having decided that he might as well have some fun while the two consulting detectives were working on the evidence, explained.

"Your counterpart is the most powerful man in Britain, and according to Sherlock, the most dangerous man we've ever met. He can track us wherever we are" or he had been able to do so, John doubted he could find them in another universe "and he forces him to take cases – "

"Why?" Bill asked. He frowned.

"Why what?" John inquired, surprised.

"Why does he force Sherlock to take cases? Surely there is no need for that".

It took John a moment to figure out what he meant. Once he did, he couldn't believe he had so casually mentioned that Sherlock had to be coerced into investigating the cases his brother gave him, thereby implying that their relationship was strained.

Even worse, he couldn't explain.

He had long ago given up trying to understand Sherlock's and Mycroft's relationship, and he had no hoped of making Bill and Mike see that in some way, the brothers did care about each other, but preferred not to show it or even admit it.

"It's complicated" he eventually answered, if only to break the silence.

Mike unconsciously moved closer to his brother on the sofa.

"They don't get on?"

"It's complicated" John repeated, and Mike's eyes narrowed. He was obviously going to ask more, but Bill stopped him with a hand on his arm.

The doctor couldn't remember ever having seen Sherlock and Mycroft touch.

At this moment, he heard Mrs. Hudson step on the stairs and called out to his best friend. It was time for them to hide.


	13. Chapter 13

"The residue Bill found in the kitchen will take longer to process. It will be easier to start with it – "

"You found the dirt under his fingernails first" John insisted, and Sherlock was reminded of his friend's insistence that they clean the kitchen table before eating at it after his experiments, and his ill-fated attempts to label the shelves because he wanted to organize their flat, at least shortly after he'd moved in. He hadn't tried to in a long time.

"And that's a reason to start with the dirt?"

"We have to have some form of order, Sherlock – "

"Why?"

The question escaped him, the question he had often wondered about, but never asked the doctor – why did he have to obey social conventions, why couldn't he leave the body parts on any shelve in the fridge, why did he have to thank people who had behaved idiotic through the whole investigation.

John blinked and stared at him.

"That – "

At the same time, they realized there was no answer, and when once upon a time Sherlock would have been annoyed at the fact, now he merely chuckled.

After a moment, John joined him. Sherlock shook his head and agreed to process the dirt first.

He assumed John was talking to Bill and Mike, maybe trying to understand the rules of this universe. A hopeless endeavour – no one had yet managed to comprehend their own, so it was not be expected that they would succeed in getting to know this one. Still, the doctor was confused and looking for answers, and if hearing about Bill's and Mike's lives made him more relaxed, Sherlock had nothing against it.

Sherlock admitted to himself that he preferred processing evidence with John to watching the brothers, and not only because this was an utterly fascinating case, but because he didn't want to see them. That he and Mycroft weren't at the best of terms was a fact that had been cemented by decades of mistrust and wrong words at the wrong time, by two different temperaments that would never be able to understand one another completely, by an exchange of information between the two most dangerous men he'd ever met. Since he'd returned, it had got better, but they never would have what these brothers had. Not simply because they were ordinary. But because Mike and Bill were different people than Sherlock and Mycroft, and despite there being a few similarities, enough to realize why this universe had chosen to give them their faces, it wasn't certain that Sherlock would have recognized them for what they were if they had looked different.

"Me and Harry "don't get on" either, as Bill put it once" John interrupted his thoughts, and Sherlock realized that it must have been easy to deduce what he'd been contemplating.

"What does she do?" he asked.

"She's a professor. Currently she's working in the United States, doing some research concerning diseases of the central nervous system. We don't speak often" John replied courtly and focused on the dirt.

It didn't take long for Mrs. Hudson to make the tea, and soon he heard John call out for him; without bothering to explain, knowing that it would annoy both of them, he left the kitchen and followed the doctor into the room that was his in their universe.

John pressed his ear to the door while Sherlock sat down on the bed and let his gaze sweep over the room. It was meticulously clean – like he'd expected from the consulting detective – and he could see a corner of a picture sticking out over the edge of the cupboard. He guessed it was a picture of John and Harry as children; he kept his of himself and his brother in the drawer of his nightstand. The wall looked strangely empty without the periodic table, he decided.

"Sit down, John" he whispered. The doctor might be curious, but he would hardly hear anything worthwhile.

His best friend sat down next to him and looked around the room as well.

Sherlock hadn't been to John's room often – mostly when he'd had a revelation or a client had shown up early in the morning – but he knew it was just as organized as this one was.

Not for the first time, he wondered what this meant to his friend. John had been on edge since they had met their counterparts. It was possible that he was uncomfortable with watching himself being what Sherlock had been when they had met, but the consulting detective didn't think so.

"It feels strange" his friend began, looking at the door, and illogically, Sherlock's stomach clenched, "to hide from Mrs. Hudson. In our universe, she'd never forgive us."

"She has "her boys" in this universe" Sherlock reminded him, making sure to sound like he minded how she referred to them usually, because he knew John would be able to tell he was lying and it would make his flatmate smile. He was right when he simply grinned at Sherlock and continued to listen to the sounds that came through the closed door.

She must have found out about the t-shirt, because she was berating John for it. Bill didn't say anything, which meant he was enjoying the show, like John would.

Sherlock shot him a glare to make him understand that a comment wouldn't be appreciated. John suppressed a smile.

He had always known Sherlock was human, utterly human, more so than many others he had met, and had of course noticed that he was showing more emotions, was opening himself up more since he'd arrived, even though he still hadn't told him much about the time he'd been away. But the difference between him and John Watson really made him see how much Sherlock had changed.

It wasn't that John was a psychopath – far from it, he was sure; after all, he was friends with Bill, and he tolerated Mike despite the obvious dislike they harboured for one another – but he was very like what Sherlock had been before –

He remembered Jim and a shudder ran down his spine. He looked down on the floor to avoid Sherlock's eyes.

He was glad their visit to the lab had been short. Just because he knew this wasn't the Moriarty they had met –

How different everything would have been if Moriarty had indeed been Jim from IT. Sherlock would never have left, John wouldn't have spent years grieving for a man who was alive. And yet –

The consulting detective was trying to conceal that he was worried, the doctor knew. Ever since they had entered this universe, he had almost constantly kept John in his line of sight – the exception being when he and Bill had got coffee and Sherlock hadn't been able to raise an objection – and he was starting to wonder if his friend thought he couldn't handle this universe. It was complicated, and at times difficult, to see the people they met as someone else and not their friends and enemies. Sherlock would be aware of that.

The weirdest part was certainly seeing himself running around – not because he didn't like this version of himself per se (how could he dislike him, when he reminded him so much of his best friend) but because it was like looking in a mirror whose image moved.

Had he given Sherlock reason to suspect that he was uncomfortable for other reasons than that they didn't know how to return home and that they had no idea how this universe worked? Was he adverse to John's attempts to make sense of all of this by watching the inhabitants of this London closely and talking to Bill and Mike when he had the chance?

Because there had to be a certain reason for John Watson being a consulting detective and Bill Holmes being his best friend in this dimension; there had to be a reason for Jim Moriarty working at St. Bart's. Because there had been a reason John had been introduced to Sherlock. There had to be. They were meant to be best friends, in any universe apparently, so why was John a consulting detective here?

"John" Sherlock interrupted his thoughts quietly.

The doctor looked at him and was taken aback by the intensity of his gaze. Sherlock had only once looked at him like this, and even then, he had barely seen it; he'd stumbled into the kitchen for his first coffee of the morning, and Sherlock had stared at him, just like he did now, and he had only seen it for a second and then forgotten all about it until months later, when he'd gone through the events of these days again and again because it had been three days before Sherlock killed himself.

"Yes?" he managed to ask.

The consulting detective bit his lip, unsure of what to say, and it was such a strange occurrence that for a moment, John was afraid he would lose him again.

"It's enough that it happened" he stated, and anyone else would have needed time to understand that he was talking about their first meeting, and that there didn't have to be any reason behind it, but John knew, and it was indeed enough.

Sherlock tilted his head to the side and listened.

"John is in the kitchen" he explained, "most likely working on the evidence. Mrs. Hudson is talking to Bill and Mike. I don't think it will take much longer".

John nodded. It was all he could do. Sherlock had once again managed to quell his doubts with a simple sentence, and he was content to wait.

Mrs. Hudson didn't stay long, proving Sherlock right, and soon Mike was opening the door.

"She's gone" he informed them, and John knew Sherlock wanted to say "obviously" but refrained from doing so, "and he's found something".

Sherlock immediately swept past him and into the kitchen, and he stepped aside to let John pass, mumbling, "I don't know who you deal with them".

John simply smiled and followed the consulting detective.

"South of the Thames... just like you said" John explained, gesticulating towards the small pack of dirt that lay on the table.

"I also started processing the residue found in the kitchen, but it is going to take a while".

Sherlock nodded and looked at John's notes about the evidence he had found under the victim's fingernails. It wasn't much. Like the other man had said, the dirt consisted of particles more commonly found South of the Thames, but that didn't mean it had to come from there. Every man in London carried dirt with him. Maybe Pike had brought it into his flat himself. It was all they had, though. And they needed to catch Trevelyan if they wanted to return home. It was entirely possible that the scientists had already moved on to another universe, but even if this was the case, they had to make sure. They couldn't let a dangerous man run around multiple dimensions.

"So do you think Trevelyan's hiding there?" Bill asked.

"It's possible" John replied, staring at the notes in Sherlock's hands, their shoulders brushing, "but we can't be sure" he continued, voicing Sherlock's objections. "There are many reasons for the dirt to have found its way into Pike's apartment, and even if it is from South of the Thames, we have nothing else to go on."

"Not yet" Sherlock reminded him.

Mike, who hadn't said a word since he'd told them they could leave the bedroom, began, "We could – "

He never finished his sentence because at this moment, someone frantically started to ring the bell. They heard Mrs. Hudson open the door and a voice they all recognized cry out "Sorry!" as the man who had just arrived ran past her and up the stairs.

Bill quickly ran to open the door to their flat, and Jim almost fell through it, panting.

"I think I know what Trevelyan's plan is".

John could only surmise from the IT tech's expression that it wasn't good.


	14. Chapter 14

"I was going through anything I could get on Pike" Jim started to explain, stumbling over some words in his excitement, "and at first it was really difficult, because there was barely any information on his work on parallel universes, and – "

"Jim" Bill interrupted him calmly. "Please. What have you found out?"

John didn't doubt that he had stopped the IT tech because he could tell their friends were getting impatient.

Jim blinked.

"Right. Sorry. So, Pike has been theorizing – "

"Theorizing?" Mike asked. "Theorizing? All that money they must have spent on him and they didn't even want to see results?"

John could see Sherlock smirk from the corner of his eye and suppressed a smile himself. They both vividly remembered Mycroft coming to see them to give Sherlock a file after he had been forced to visit several secret labs in and around London – he had let show that he was upset, and he had muttered about "no results whatsoever and yet they insist on paying them money". Apparently Mike was of the same opinion.

Sadly, Trevelyan seemed to either have managed to build a device to transfer them into a parallel universe without the Secret Service's or the Government's knowledge – which was likely, otherwise Mycroft would have warned them – or he had been paid to create such a machine, to what ends John couldn't say.

Jim cleared his throat and tightened his grip on the papers in his hand.

"Yes, theorizing. Pike went through a lot of data that, quite frankly, goes over my head, but he insisted that parallel universes existed and that it would be possible to cross from one to another. However, he advised against any attempt to cross dimensions."

Even before he continued, John could feel dread pool in his stomach. If a scientist, who should have been interested in finding out if his theories were correct, didn't want anyone to try –

"He thought that if one "tipped the balance" in the other universe, that it could create immense complications, changes, in the dimension one came from".

""Tipping the balance"" John repeated, "and by that you mean –"

"Murder".

Sherlock's voice was quiet, but the word seemed to grow in strength as it travelled through the flat, only becoming louder and louder to the people who listened.

"Amongst other things" Jim replied, "He thought that other happenings, such as an election gone wrong – remember, tipping the balance, once voice would be enough for that – or something as simple as accident occurring when nothing should have happened – "

"We get the picture" Sherlock interrupted him briskly and began to pace up and down the living room. Jim watched him, and trying to comfort him, said, "I know it's dangerous, but at least there has been no –"

He caught Bill's eye and stopped.

"What happened?"

"Pike" he answered simply. "He was killed this morning."

Jim cursed. "And he was the only lead you guys had to – "

"Jim" the other man warned, and the IT tech closed his mouth, looking sheepish.

"Changing one universe by disrupting the order of the other" John, who had been silent until now, muttered. "He already did that. It certainly gives him one more motive for Pike's murder".

The doctor turned around and watched his friend pace. They knew they were thinking the same thing – how much could their world have changed? What difference had Pike's murder caused? And what could Trevelyan possibly hope to achieve by changing things?

"Can he control it?" Sherlock asked, standing still. Jim stared at him and the consulting detective repeated, "Can he control it? Has he any way of knowing what he changes?"

He shrugged. "Pike hadn't gone that far, I think. At least I couldn't find anything on it..."

"So we have to find Trevelyan, somehow change back whatever he changed, if he changed anything at all, and get you home?" Bill asked.

"Yes" Sherlock confirmed, as if it was the easiest, most logical conclusion, and John thought that it might be, for him at least.

"First of all let's find him" John, the consulting detective, stated, "then we can try to find solutions to our other problems."

The doctor nodded at him and, since Sherlock had begun to pace again, caught his sleeve. He dragged him into a corner, certain that Bill, with Mike's help, would insist on giving them some privacy.

"What are you thinking?" he whispered. Sherlock's shoulders were tense, his jaw clenched; John knew the signs. The consulting detective was stressed, more so than their situation could explain, at least at the moment.

"A life for a life" he replied simply, as quietly as he could.

"Sorry?"

"A life for a life, John. If Trevelyan can control the changes – we know he is a madman. Why else would he have used people as guinea pigs the way he did? And one madman might use a life to save that of another madman".

Even before John completely understood what Sherlock meant, he paled.

* * *

 

If he hadn't been expecting it – if Mycroft hadn't told him what Trevelyan thought he could do – if he hadn't been confused and trying to grasp what was going on – he wouldn't have felt it.

But as it was, he could feel a ripple.

He didn't know how else to describe it; he was standing next to the British Government, looking at Mycroft, waiting for him to elaborate, when he suddenly felt a movement in the room, in the air, like everything was shifting slightly to the side.

He stared at Mycroft, and the other man nodded to show he had felt it too.

"Keep it" he ordered.

"What?" Greg asked, confused, because whatever he was supposed to remember couldn't be important because he had already forgotten –

"Greg. The dizziness".

Right. He was dizzy. He rubbed his head. How could he have forgotten? He was still dizzy –

"Remember. It is important".

"Why?"

"Because otherwise we couldn't help Sherlock and John."

"But Sherlock – " what he had wanted to say escaped him as he remembered that the consulting detective and his blogger were stuck in a parallel universe and that they had to get them back.

He shook his head to clear it and raised a hand when Mycroft began to speak.

"I know, Mycroft. Sherlock, John, parallel universe. I have it now." He frowned as he tried to understood what had just happened.

"What's going on?"

"I just told you that Trevelyan might attempt to change our universe by influencing another. He seems to have succeeded."

"That – that was things changing?" Greg stared at the wall as he tried to figure out if anything had changed. He remembered everything as he had before, but he couldn't be sure; if it was changed, these changes would have been normal, would always have existed, and what was normal would have been strange, and he couldn't –

"Don't" the British Government said slowly and clearly. "Don't try to remember if anything has changed. If I am correct, we are the only people who still remember things the way they were."

"But why?"

"Because we knew they could be changed. From the moment I told you it was possible, the information was in your consciousness, and therefore when things did change you noticed."

Greg sighed.

"And I thought working with Sherlock was complicated." He took a deep breath and continued, "What now? Are we still investigating Sherlock's and John's disappearance? I mean, we must be, or we wouldn't be here, and –"

"Greg."

The DI reminded himself that he wasn't supposed to think about the confusing events that had led to this point and closed his mouth.

"It will be best to return to my office" Mycroft began, taking his phone out and presumably sending a text to his driver, "and to conclude what has been changed from there. Under no circumstance – "

"Don't worry. I know what I have to do. Remember".

The British Government nodded and turned around without another word, strolling out of the lab. Greg followed him.

He was strangely relieved that the driver that awaited them was the same that had brought him here. On the drive to Mycroft's office, he realized that remembering would be more difficult than he had thought.

There was a part of him that wanted to forget about the dizziness because it would be easy; that wanted to sink back into the familiarity that was calling out to him. Now, he felt off, like something was wrong, because it was.

Sherlock and John needed his help. He kept repeating the phrase in his head until it had become an automatic reminder of the shift that had taken place.

Greg wondered if Mycroft suspected what had happened. Probably. This was Mycroft Holmes, after all.

He was proven right when Mycroft left the car without a word and went straight to his office, ignoring his employees and leaving Greg to hurry after him.

When he entered the room, Mycroft was already typing into his computer. He stopped abruptly and stared at the screen

For a few moments, silence reigned.

The British Government raised his eyes to meet Greg's.

"Jim Moriarty disappeared after he had discredited Sherlock".

The Secret Service had recovered Moriarty's body, Greg knew. If it hadn't been found, if Moriarty had disappeared –

The consulting criminal could still be alive.


	15. Chapter 15

"Are you –" John realized that he had raised his voice and felt the stares of the others; without another word, he dragged Sherlock in the consulting detective's bedroom and closed the door behind them.

"Are you saying that Moriarty might be alive?"

"It is possible".

John sat down on the bed and took slow, even breaths. After Sherlock's death, he had not cared what had happened to the consulting criminal; he had known that, even if he had wanted revenge (and it seemed so pointless, with his best friend gone; everything seemed so pointless) he wouldn't have found him.

After Sherlock had returned and he found that his world had started turning again, he asked. Just once. And the consulting detective told him that Moriarty was dead, that Mycroft had had his body taken care of. And it was enough. He was dead and it was over.

It had been over.

"John" Sherlock said, his voice pained. The doctor realized that he wasn't the only one who had just had a shock. Moriarty had cost Sherlock much, more than any other, and John was only thinking about what it meant for himself. Ashamed, he stood up and opened his mouth, although he didn't know what he wanted to say.

Sherlock raised a hand and the words died on his tongue before he had a chance to speak them out loud.

"Don't. We have to concentrate on finding Trevelyan and returning home".

He knew Sherlock was focusing on what was important, he knew his best friend didn't want to talk, and yet John wanted to. He wanted to tell him that everything would be alright, even though Sherlock wouldn't believe him because there was no way he could know.

Then another thought came to him.

"Shouldn't we know?"

Sherlock shot him a puzzled look.

"If Moriarty was still alive – shouldn't we know? He would have been alive this whole time. We shouldn't remember that he was dead."

His voice grew stronger during his explanation. If time had changed, their memories should have changed too. It was only logical –

"I do not think it works that way".

"Why not?" he demanded impatiently. "If Trevelyan changed our world, it would be – "

"There has to be some paradox that allows people to remember – otherwise, he wouldn't be able to change anything because he wouldn't be able to recall that he did change things. And we are not in our own universe. It might be that any changes don't affect us because of that" Sherlock argued calmly.

"But –" John stopped himself. He understood Sherlock. The consulting detective had a point. He simply didn't want to believe it. But he had to. Otherwise he would be of no use.

Sherlock gave him to understand with a look that he thought their discussion had gone on long enough, and John agreed with him. He opened the door and they joined the others in the living room.

John, who was sitting in his chair, let his gaze sweep over them, most likely trying to deduce what they had talked about. The doctor was certain that, but for Bill, he would have listened to their conversation.

"Have your finished your – "

Bill interrupted him. "It's none of our business."

"We are working on a case – "

"John".

Sherlock recognized the tone as the one John had used in Dartmoor, after they had saved Henry Knight, and it had the same effect on the consulting detective as it had had on him. John was silent.

"As a matter of fact" Sherlock began, and despite the doctor obviously being confused as to why he should tell them – and it was typical of him, the human belief that the less people knew about what had happened the less real it got – he considered it better that they knew "we have a theory. We believe that a change has already taken place."

"What change?"

He had forgotten about Jim. He was standing next to Mike in front of the fireplace, and his question was asked so innocently, out of well-meaning curiosity, that Sherlock found himself unable to answer him.

The man frowned, obviously concerned, and it was enough to remind Sherlock that this wasn't Moriarty. However, he would probably not appreciate to hear about his counterpart, so he decided to carefully choose his words as he replied, "There was a criminal – one of the most dangerous men we ever encountered. He died a few years ago. We believe that Trevelyan might have used Pike's death to save his life".

He knew before he turned around that John had deduced what he hadn't said, heard the intake of breath that usually came before a statement of his, and he didn't doubt that he would have said it, would have shocked Jim and Mike and probably endangered the case – after all, the IT tech was the only one who had given them any information – but Bill, who seemed to realize that what his friend was about to say wouldn't help the situation, spoke before he could.

"And I assume that's not good."

"Yes" Sherlock confirmed, "it's a bit not good."

"And now – "

"We find Trevelyan" Sherlock said, "and we try to get back to our universe."

Changing it back to what it was before was a whole different matter. Pike was dead; and even if they had Trevelyan and could force him to take them home – it wasn't certain that he could return Moriarty to his grave. It might be that he was unable to.

It would be better to believe that he couldn't, rather than cling to the hope that he could.

Sherlock didn't look forward to facing Moriarty again. But this time, there would be no games, and John would be at his side no matter what. He would involve Mycroft, and they would take care of the consulting criminal once and for all.

First and foremost, they had to get home. He had to concentrate on that. He couldn't pounder what Moriarty might have done in the years he'd been alive since Sherlock's disappearance, what he was still doing, sitting in his web, pulling the strings from the shadows like he had done before he had ever learned of his existence.

John cleared his throat.

"Trevelyan. Right". He was obviously annoyed at not being told everything – he probably found the idea of a dangerous criminal fascinating, like Sherlock had at the first mention of his name.

"Yes. Anything on the residue yet?" the doctor answered, and Sherlock realized he had been lost in his memories.

The other man shook his head.

"While Mrs. Hudson was here, and then when you were talking, I was able to confirm that it was organic matter – but not much else. It could be from a plant, but..." He trailed off. He didn't need to tell them that there were many plants in London.

"All we can do is wait".

It was John who stated the obvious, his John, and Sherlock wasn't tempted to roll his eyes for once. He was right. They could only wait, hope for a clue. They had no idea where Trevelyan was, who he was in contact with, if anyone, and what he was planning to do, aside from bringing Moriarty back – and that was assuming he had indeed brought him back. Maybe he had done something else, maybe he had no control over the change, maybe nothing had changed at all.

They couldn't know and Sherlock hated not knowing.

"I better be off" Jim announced, "I have to get back to work. Not everyone gets a day off because their friend needs help – " He shot Bill a sly look, which he only answered with a sigh.

"I told them I had a family emergency, so what."

"You shouldn't – " Mike began, but stopped when he felt all their eyes on him. He grumbled something under his breath, but didn't attempt to finish his sentence.

After Jim had gone, with a promise to try and find if Trevelyan had been in this world before and been in contact with anyone, Bill once more tried to reason with him.

"Mike, you have your work. Go. We're staying here anyway. We don't know where Trevelyan is."

"And you promise that you'll call? Whatever happens?"

"Yes, brother. I will call."

Mike finally agreed that at present he couldn't help them, hugged his brother and bid the others a polite goodbye before leaving.

Sherlock couldn't deny that he understood why John relaxed when Mycroft closed the door behind him.

He was feeling the same way about Jim. The IT tech had been nothing but helpful and polite, and yet – especially now, that they suspected Moriarty was alive –

It didn't make any sense. Sherlock's opinion on the man changed, depending on whether he saw him, whether he was thinking logically or not because he was stressed –

Sentiment. It would never fail to amaze him.

He caught John's gaze and told himself that soon, everything would be over.

But for now they had to wait.


	16. Chapter 16

Greg didn't even have time to process what Mycroft had just told him before another possibility, an awful and not to be thought of possibility presented itself, that made him feel like all the air had left the room.

"Is – " He broke off because he couldn't bring himself to ask if Sherlock was alive. The answer had been "No" for far too long, and he didn't want to hear it again.

"He's alive" Mycroft breathed, and his face was showing such relief that Greg reached out to grasp his shoulder before he remembered who he was talking to and let his hand drop.

"And Moriarty – "

"Nothing". After a moment, he clarified, "We don't know where he is. There have been a few cases where it is entirely possible, if not likely, that Moriarty was responsible, but other than that – Moran seems to have taken over the web officially."

"Moran? We arrested him – "

"No, you didn't" Mycroft explained, obviously trying to keep his patience, and it told Greg just how concerned he was, "Moriarty didn't die, therefore he had no reason to avenge his death".

Greg vividly remembered the day Sherlock had returned, the day they had captured Moran –

_Nothing could have prepared him for Sherlock Holmes casually showing up at his flat, picking the lock before sunrise and strolling into his living room like he hadn't been gone for three years and reminding him that "It wasn't nice to point a gun at friends" when he'd stormed out of the bedroom, ready to arrest the intruder._

_He could have screamed or hit him, but instead he had hugged Sherlock because he had missed him so much, and when Sherlock had explained that he needed his help to arrest Moran, he had agreed without a second thought._

_It had been a long wait that evening, standing at a corner of Baker Street, waiting for the sniper to show up –_

_No, it hadn't. Sherlock had simply strolled into his living room and that was that. What had he been thinking?_

"Greg".

There was a hand on his arm, and the DI tried to recall why he was in Mycroft's office to begin with.

"Focus."

The word startled him out of his reverie, and he quickly chased the memories that hadn't been there seconds ago away. What was happening?

"Reality has been changed. It tries to reassert itself in our heads. Don't let it."

"Right. Right, sorry". He stared at Mycroft, who only now pulled his hand back.

It would become even more difficult, he felt sure of it. But he would be no help if he didn't remember. Maybe he would forget that he was supposed to help Sherlock and John, and he couldn't allow that.

He quickly reminded himself again what Trevelyan had done. After taking a few deep breaths, he answered Mycroft's questioning stare with, "Alright. I know. I'm okay".

He didn't add "For now"; Mycroft already knew.

"Do you think Moriarty and Trevelyan are in contact?" he asked instead.

"It is probable. Trevelyan wouldn't bring Moriarty back to life simply because he could; he has the ability to change everything, so why should he choose to save him if he didn't profit from it?"

"But Moriarty was dead" Greg argued "they can't have talked. They can't know each other – I assume the Secret Service would be aware of it if that were the case. So, if he was dead, and Trevelyan only learned about him after his death, which is likely, because no one knew about him before – "

"I know it is complicated, but Moriarty wasn't dead. Not in this reality". Mycroft's calm only resulted in worsening Greg's confusion, and the DI shook his head.

"So because he wasn't dead, Trevelyan was able to communicate with him and make sure he didn't die".

Speaking them out loud made the words sound even stranger, and he winced. Mycroft, however, nodded.

"It's a paradox. While there has been a lot of research dedicated to time, no one has ever been able to explain it; it may be that paradoxes are only a consequence of our linear view."

"Linear?"

"It might be that time isn't linear. In fact, the Celts – "

Greg raised a hand. He had no doubt that Mycroft and Sherlock found the subject matter fascinating, but he would rather deal with the problem at hand.

"Moriarty is alive. He and Trevelyan are working together" he stated, more for himself than for Mycroft's benefit; the British Government nodded anyway.

"That is all I need to know". He was serious; why and how didn't matter, not when Sherlock and John depended on them, not when the consulting criminal was still around, controlling almost every crime in their city, the city Greg had sworn to protect.

"What now?"

He already knew that none of Mycroft's agents could help. If Moriarty had been alive for three years and they had failed to find him, there was no reason to believe that suddenly the man's location would appear on a monitor.

Mycroft Holmes was more than capable of finding him, though, Greg felt confident about that. They needed to find him, they needed to make him contact Trevelyan; it might even be that the consulting criminal himself knew how to access parallel universes and that they could get Sherlock and John back. Once they had saved them –

"Moriarty would never leave London" Mycroft declared. "He regards the city as his. He couldn't leave it behind".

Greg wondered if he spoke out of personal experience, but judged it wise not to ask.

"He wouldn't do without certain comforts, of course, and he would need to be available in case anything went wrong. Moran may be a good shot, but he can't be trusted with a web this size..."

Mycroft fell silent and Greg let him come to his conclusions. He had long ago learned that, if one the Holmes entered his mind palace (although for Mycroft, it probably wasn't a palace and bigger than Sherlock's) it was best to wait.

"There are three options" he finally explained.

"And once we have found Moriarty and he has given us all we need – " Greg had decided not to think about the possibility that this might lead nowhere, that Sherlock and John could be stuck. What he had just said, however, wasn't about that. It was more of a question than a statement, designed to get exactly the reply he expected to get.

Mycroft stood up. He took his umbrella in his right hand as his gaze hardened.

"We will do what I should have done a long time ago".

* * *

As John had predicted, both his counterpart and Sherlock accepted the necessity of waiting for a new development, but neither possessed the patience to make it easier on their friends.

Thankfully, they were both working on the sample in the kitchen, occasionally arguing about the best way to proceed, and he and Bill could stay in the living room and try to relax. Although John doubted he would succeed. It had been difficult enough when he had known them to be trapped in a parallel universe, with no idea how to get back into their own; but now, with the possibility that Moriarty might be alive, it was utterly impossible.

He was just wondering what they would find if they succeeded to return home over his fifth cup of tea when Bill asked, "What did he do?"

"Sorry?"

"Jim. He's my friend. You punched him. You wouldn't punch any criminal".

It was tempting to simply answer "How do you know" and ignore his question. But Bill was right; Jim was his friend. If something similar happened with Greg or Mike, John would want to know too.

"I – He – " The doctor coughed. "I apologized for hitting him."

"I know you did, and I know he's too nice to hold it against you. But you didn't answer my question."

John couldn't think of an easy way to put it, so he bluntly told him, "You might find it difficult to be his friend if you knew".

"Because he was a criminal?"

"No" John replied tiredly, his head swimming with memories of the pool and the rooftop and three years alone, "because he was – he was very dangerous."

""Was", so you put him away?"

"Not exactly."

Bill was looking at him expectantly.

John avoided his eyes.

"Moriarty – Jim – he was dangerous. Very dangerous. He tried to – "

His voice broke. Sherlock and he had never really talked about it. There was no reason to, with him being back. And, as it turned out, John wouldn't have been able to form a sentence anyway.

"Tried to what?" Bill asked. He allowed the doctor to take his time, even though it was obvious that he wouldn't give up until he had had his answer.

John didn't know what to say.

"He tried to make Sherlock commit suicide. Instead, he faked his death and I didn't see him for three years afterwards."

The words fell into the silence between them, and John could watch Bill slowly comprehending their meaning, his eyes flickering to the kitchen doorway, where Sherlock and John were still debating the merits of a certain test and back to him.

"Not for three years..." He swallowed. "Did you know – "

"I thought he was dead".

John figured that Bill wanted to know the whole truth.

"For three years – you – "

Once more he stared at the kitchen doorway before demanding, "So he was the one? The criminal Sherlock talked about?"

John nodded.

"How can you even look at him?"

He didn't have to clarify who he meant.

"He's different. He's not the same person. Sherlock was right".

Bill bit his lip and looked down at the floor.

"I understand" he said softly. "You hitting him, I mean. If – " He trailed off. John smiled.

"It's difficult to imagine life without them".

"Exactly. Even if John can be – "

"Demanding?"

"I've heard far worse than that".

"Me too" John answered, "But it doesn't matter."

"No" Bill chuckled. "It doesn't."

John allowed silence to fall between them once more; Bill had enough to think about.

He heard another crash from the kitchen and winced. He knew better than to interfere until Sherlock called him, though.

"It has to be rare" Sherlock murmured, looking through the microscope again.

"I know. You made yourself clear on this point several time already". John sounded annoyed, but Sherlock couldn't bring himself to care. They had to get home as soon as possible. Moriarty might be committing crimes even now – as a matter of fact, knowing him, he was certainly committing crimes now.

And he might be going after their friends.

So Sherlock said nothing and concentrated on the sample once again.

"It was Jim, wasn't it? The criminal you talked about before?"

Of course John would use the opportunity when neither the doctor nor his flatmate was in the immediate vicinity to hear what he had to say to ask. Sherlock would have done the same.

"Yes" he replied curtly. "He was."

John raised his eyebrows.

"He must have cost you a lot".

It wasn't a question, and Sherlock made no attempt to refute it. There was no point.

John changed the topic then, proving that Bill must have had some influence on him, with or without a consulting criminal and three years of separation.

"Any idea on the plant?"

Sherlock sighed. "Obviously he must have had it between his fingers, either because of an experiment or because he played around with it – it was squashed enough not to be recognizable until we did tests on it; the results of the tests indicate – "

He stopped. How could he not have known? Thinking about what he had just seen under the microscope, it was so obvious.

He knew what kind of plant they were looking for. And there was only one place in London he could think of where it could be.


	17. Chapter 17

Both John and Bill knew it was useless to ask if they were sure, so they simply followed their friends as they rushed out of the flat as soon as it had grown dark.

Convincing them to wait until then hadn't been easy. Sherlock was more than delighted at his discovery and wanted to go immediately, and John agreed with him. It took both Bill's and the doctor's efforts to convince them to be patient until they could go out without being seen.

"It's the Botanical Garden" Sherlock explained, running out of the kitchen.

"I should have known – the plant is too rare; it's a species normally found in the tropics, which was why we weren't familiar with it".

If they had been home and at safety, or at least as safe as they ever were, John would have teased him about his inability to recognize the plant immediately, but he let it slide.

"And the Botanical Garden?" Bill inquired.

"It's the most likely option" John explained, emerging from the kitchen.

A quick glance, brought on by his curiosity because he would have expected the consulting detective to follow Sherlock as soon as they knew where to go, revealed to John that he'd spent the last minute in the kitchen organizing the evidence. There wasn't much to organize, but he had carefully put it in plastic bags and labelled them.

He decided to ask Sherlock to do so once they returned (while doubting that he would) and grabbed his jacket.

The Botanical Garden had been closed for a few hours when they arrived; all was still and quiet.

"He is probably hiding in a greenhouse that's closed for maintenance" Sherlock had explained on the way.

"Or where young plants who aren't yet judged strong enough to be put in one of the other greenhouses are grown" John had added.

They split up to look for the right place, Sherlock and John going in one and their counterparts taking another direction.

"Sherlock?" John whispered, moving his flashlight so they could see where they were going; Sherlock was shining his on any greenhouse in the vicinity, trying to see if there were any signs that it was inhabited.

"What do you we do once we find him?"

"We interrogate him" Sherlock replied matter-of-factly. He had to know what John meant, and he proved that he did a moment later, adding, "There has to be a way to return. There is no point in influencing a universe you can't enter".

They hadn't yet spoken about Moriarty much; the spectre of another battle hung in the air between them, and John bit his lip. Now was not the time to think about that.

Although he already knew what he would do.

They would find Moriarty, and if Sherlock didn't pull the trigger, John would.

He would rid the world of the consulting criminal and he would protect Sherlock. He wouldn't allow the consulting criminal to play games with him again. He wouldn't suffer Sherlock being ripped from him again.

"Let us not jump to conclusion". Sherlock sounded tense, and John realized he had once more followed his thought process, like he was wont to do.

"Maybe there is a way to change everything back to the way it was before."

John nodded, even though Sherlock couldn't see it, and chose not to answer as a new idea formed in his mind.

Wasn't it possible to learn how Trevelyan could alter their reality and use this knowledge to make it better? It didn't have to be murder – maybe they simply had to set one criminal free here to send one to prison in their own universe. Maybe they could even influence the past –

No. No. He had to stop right there. Whatever Trevelyan had changed, they still remembered things they way they had been, and it had made them the men they were today. The bond they shared had grown stronger than ever before since Sherlock's return, and he didn't want to lose that. He was certain Sherlock felt the same way. They couldn't lose this. They wouldn't lose this. Sherlock was right; they had to concentrate on finding Trevelyan. The rest would come when they were in possession of all the facts.

Having come to this conclusion, he did what he had always done since the day they had met: Follow his best friend and trust him.

Then the consulting detective stopped so abruptly that he almost ran into him, and his heart rate quickened.

He had found Trevelyan's hideaway.

* * *

 

It took Mycroft Holmes the whole afternoon to find Moriarty, and Greg found that he'd never thought a few hours this long before; through countless stake-outs, waiting for Sherlock to process the evidence and trials, he had never felt this nervous.

Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he would never have believed that it would take Mycroft that long to locate the consulting criminal; he was the British Government, after all, the man who kidnapped his brother's friends, who was able to learn languages in a few hours, the man who could be counted on to know everything that happened in this country, and yet he failed to find one man.

Once Greg noticed how uncharitable his thoughts were, he left the office to get coffee, only to find that Anthea was waiting for him behind the door with two cups.

He felt her questioning stare as he turned around and re-entered the room, and he couldn't blame her. For years, the PA had known every detail of whatever Mycroft happened to be involved in, she had coordinated his meetings, he had trusted her more than anyone else, except maybe himself. And now he was shutting himself into his office without any reason. She wouldn't be able to explain his sudden desire to find Moriarty; he had been alive the three years Sherlock had been gone, and he had obviously never been so desperate to locate him.

She couldn't know.

After he had put Mycroft's cup on his desk, he glanced back at the door and wondered if they shouldn't ask her what she remembered. Anthea was smart, or she wouldn't work for Mycroft; she would understand what was happening if they explained it to her. She would be able to tell them –

"It would only cause confusion."

"Sorry?"

Mycroft sighed and looked up from the file he'd been studying.

"We have to remember. Hearing how she sees it might cause damage to our memories."

"We could – I mean, we have done well so far, haven't we?"

Greg looked at Mycroft, warming his hands on his cup.

"What is Moran's first name?"

The DI blinked.

"What?"

"Just answer. What is Moran's first name?"

"It's – " But the answer that had seemed so easy, within his grasp, a moment ago, evaded him. Greg felt panic rise in him. If he couldn't remember Moran's first name, what else had he forgotten?

Then he concentrated, and he could hear Sherlock's voice in his head.

"Sebastian" he told Mycroft, "He's called Sebastian. And he should be serving a life sentence".

The British Government gave him one of his rare smiles, although his expression turned serious barely a second later.

"If it takes you time to remember his name now, what do you think it would do to your mind if you were to hear about this new reality?"

Greg's eyes lingered on the back of the computer screens and the files on Mycroft's desk and he understood why the elder Holmes had refused the DI's help. It must be almost impossible to keep track of the right memories with the proof that they couldn't have been created in front of him, and he was protecting Greg from the struggle he was fighting.

Hoping to make it easier for him, Greg sat down in a chair, nursed his coffee and kept silently repeating to himself what he knew.

"Greg?" Mycroft's voice interrupted his recollection twenty minutes later, and he sounded scared. The DI had never heard Mycroft Holmes scared.

"Yes?" he asked calmly, not wanting to upset Mycroft further.

"What happened on the day Sherlock returned? What exactly?"

Greg quickly went through the important point and was relieved to watch the colour come back to his friend's face.

He nodded, once more determined, and continued to look for clues.

It took him another two hours, but when it happened, Greg felt it. There was something in the air, almost like an electrical current, that he had learned early to associate with Sherlock making a connection in his mind.

He wasn't surprised by what followed, but he was definitely delighted.

The British Government looked up, and for the first time since he'd been called in the lab, Greg read optimism in those eyes.

He knew what that meant.

Sending a prayer of thanks might not be the appropriate reaction after Mycroft had found out where the most dangerous man in London was hiding, but Greg didn't care.


	18. Chapter 18

Bill followed John, like he always did, taking care to shine his flashlight in front of his friend's feet; he was scrutinizing every glass house they passed and not concentrating on something of as little importance as not falling down.

He watched his flatmate and wondered why Sherlock seemed so much more human in some respects, even though Bill knew that John was far from the machine he pretended to be. It had to have something to do with these three years, he decided, these three years that Jim...

His grip around the flashlight tightened. The doctor had been right. It was difficult to think of Jim now. He couldn't say what would happen if he met him.

He felt bad for it, of course. Jim was his friend; one of best friends he had ever had. But in John's world, he had cost Sherlock three years of his life. Which meant that, if things had been different in their universe –

He stared at the back of the consulting detective, who was busy finding Trevelyan, oblivious to the thoughts that ran through his mind.

How had John done it? How had he lived for three years without the madman at his side?

He was aware that he couldn't do anything – what was done was done, and thinking about it wouldn't help them solve the case. And yet –

He forced himself to concentrate. He bet John didn't have these problems; the man had been in the army. He had to know how to focus.

They had to get them home. That was what was important, even if they didn't know how. Trevelyan had to have found a way to return. It would have been folly to come here if not.

"John?" he whispered.

"Yes?" His friend sounded annoyed, but he hadn't expected anything different.

"How do we make Trevelyan help them? Even if we catch him and manage to get the machine, or whatever brought them here, how can we force him to send them into the right universe?"

He had only just thought of this problem, but suspected that John and Sherlock had been dwelling on it for some time. Trevelyan was the only one who was in possession of the secret of how to cross from one universe to another; and he might send them into any dimension he pleased. How could they know that he wouldn't open fire and everyone of them would wake up in another universe?

"I have thought about it" was his friend's reply, "and I am certain Sherlock has too."

They had thought about it, therefore they had not found a solution, or he would have told him.

Bill opened his mouth to say something, when suddenly, he realized.

He wasn't clever; he wasn't Sherlock; but he worked in a lab, at least when he wasn't running after John, and he was good at what he did.

Despite only ever having done simple tests – simple by the standards of someone like Trevelyan – he knew scientists.

"There has to be a default setting."

"What?"

This time, the cause for John's annoyance was that he didn't understand, and Bill suppressed a smile as he answered, "A default setting, a button that's labelled "Safety" – whatever. Trevelyan can't want to be stuck here. There has to be a way he can return whether he's injured or weak or simply desperate. If there's a machine, there has to be something like an on-off-switch.

John didn't reply immediately. When he did, however, there was definitely something like pride in his voice.

"Bill, you aren't a genius – but you possess certain qualities which the most intelligent men of the planet would give everything for".

Bill took it was the compliment it was.

They continued strolling through the Botanical Garden, and he remembered how often he'd been here when he and Mike had been children. His brother loved flowers, had a small corner of his flat dedicated to pot plants, and he reminded himself that he should visit him soon. In the last few weeks, they had only seen each other when there had been an emergency or he'd been angry at John...

His friend's phone chimed and he stopped as he took it out and read the text.

"Sherlock has found the glass house".

Bill turned around and traced their steps, hearing John following him.

When they found the others, Sherlock wordlessly pointed at a glass house not far off; Bill couldn't see anything special about it, but, as his flatmate had pointed out, he was no genius.

"Shall we?" John asked, and, as always when his friend uttered those words, Bill could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

* * *

Greg wasn't surprised that their way led them to an abandoned warehouse. It seemed that some crucial meetings simply had to take place in them.

He glanced at Mycroft, who was staring straight ahead during the cab ride. He chose not to interrupt his thoughts, seeing as he was probably reminding himself of the truth, and he knew how difficult it could be. During the short time since they had left the office, he had had to force himself to remember Sherlock's return three times. The intervals during which he could remember were getting shorter.

He'd asked, as they had been leaving the office, if getting rid of Moriarty would help. Mycroft was unsure, and that was never a good sign.

"We will see".

See they would; and honestly, Greg didn't know how he would react. After Sherlock had been gone, he had sometimes dreamed about meeting Moriarty; he had imagined what he would do to him, and he hadn't felt sorry for it afterwards.

His lack of remorse for planning a hypothetical murder had scared him more than the fact itself. It was only logical that he should feel the need to avenge Sherlock. He had been his friend, and Moriarty had almost destroyed him.

And now there was the chance to do what he had wanted to do for so long.

He had sworn to protect this city and he had never broken a single law before meeting Sherlock; he would never have considered it. But here he was, ready to commit murder.

Strangely, he found that he didn't miss the young, optimistic PC he had once been. He had done more good through the help of his friend than he could ever have dreamed he could.

And hadn't he sworn to protect? Killing Moriarty was the best way to ensure his city's safety.

Maybe he should have been concerned because he had often heard murderers defending themselves, and sometimes it had sounded just like his thoughts now, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

Then again, they wouldn't kill him. Not yet. They had to find out if he worked with Trevelyan first, and if so, if he knew how to bring Sherlock and John back.

After they had done so –

But there would be time to think about it. Should it happen that Sherlock and John came back and Moriarty was still alive, there was enough time to think about it.

They had left the office without telling anyone where they were going, Anthea looking on worriedly, and had taken a cab a few blocks away because the British Government didn't want to leave any traces. Plus, as he had explained, they couldn't afford forgetting by being in the company of someone they knew and whose memories had changed, and his driver had been working for him for years.

Mycroft Holmes rarely explained himself with so many words, and it told Greg how worried he was. He supposed that, for a man as focused on his mind as the British Government, it was scary and stressful to be confronted with the possibility of having one's memories replaced; and Sherlock and John being trapped in another dimension certainly didn't help matters.

The thought crossed his mind that they might not be able to get them back. It wasn't the first time. He looked out of the window and determinedly thought of what lay before them, the confrontation with Moriarty. He couldn't afford to fear never seeing them again. He had to believe he would. He had to.

The drive finally ended and Mycroft walked away, Greg following him. The British Government hadn't said a word since they had left the office.

They walked silently beside one another for ten minutes, and the DI was beginning to wonder where the warehouse could be located when a hand on his arm stopped him.

Mycroft pointed to his right.

Nestled between two apartment blocks was indeed a warehouse that had seen better times.

Mycroft spoke.

"As my brother would say, the game is on".

Greg looked at the dark windows of the warehouse. He thought of many victims and three long years and a madman with a heart who had been ready to lose the game if it meant saving the people who meant the most to him.

The game was on indeed.


	19. Chapter 19

"What is he doing here?" Greg asked, taking out the gun Mycroft had handed to him shortly before they had left the office. "Even if he's living underground, he certainly could afford better places".

"The evidence suggests that he is meeting Moran" he answered, his eyes never leaving the building. "Moriarty does love to be dramatic – he probably considers this the proper environment".

Greg decided against pointing out the irony of that statement and instead scrutinized the building one more time. It wasn't big, so it shouldn't take long to find them; still, he would have preferred to know where they were so they could have the element of surprise.

That they now had to fight against Moran as well, who he remembered to be an excellent shot, wasn't exactly helping.

Mycroft reached into a pocket of his coat and brought out a gun too. Greg noticed that his hand was slightly trembling. Of course he would be nervous; Mycroft had never liked legwork, preferring to stay behind in the shadows, but this time, he couldn't trust anyone, and he couldn't risk telling anyone what had happened. He had to do it on his own.

Suddenly, Greg was thankful that he had been with him when Trevelyan had changed reality. At least he could protect one Holmes.

"Will there be guards?" he inquired. Mycroft shook his head.

"Moriarty wouldn't risk anyone hearing what he has to say to Moran, and he has been gone for three years without anyone managing to find him; he won't expect us to show up."

"Unless Trevelyan has been in contact and told him that today was the day everything changed."

The frown on Mycroft's face told him that he had considered the possibility, but that they had to risk it.

And they had to. If they wanted to help Sherlock and John, they had to.

"Ready when you are" Greg said, and the British Government sent him a look that could only be interpreted as thankful. He nodded and, without speaking again, they advanced towards the building. No one was on the street, so at least they could leave their weapons drawn; if there were snipers in the vicinity, it was good to be armed, even if they perhaps wouldn't be able to do much against them.

Greg opened the door, waiting for Mycroft's sign of approval before touching the knob; it opened silently.

He swallowed, his heart hammering, as he stepped through it before Mycroft could. He was aware that Holmes rather preferred to be the first, and that the British Government would probably regard it as his duty to go in as such, but he was the police officer with over twenty years of experience, and it was his job to shield people from dangerous criminals.

There was no one on the first floor. They moved as quietly as possible, disturbing dust that must have been lying there for years, and Greg was ready to give up, thinking that Mycroft must have been mistaken for once, when the elder Holmes tapped his shoulder and pointed to a trail of footprints that led to the first floor.

He nodded and went the stairs. As he had feared, they were made of wood and would certainly creak; they could only hope that the conversation between Moriarty and Moran would be loud enough to drown out their steps.

He put his foot on the first step and winced at the loud noise that seemed to echo through the building, but when he stood still and waited for a sign that their presence had been noted, nothing could be heard. If he hadn't seen the footprints, he would have believed the warehouse to be as abandoned as it had been for years.

Mycroft behind him moved so silently that he could have thought himself alone. The ability must run in the family, he thought as once more the stairs creaked underneath his foot.

Still there was nothing.

They slowly made their way upstairs, pausing to listen every three or four steps. Finally they reached the top and stood in another big room, similar to the one they had just left, but this time, no one could have overlooked the footprints in the dust.

And was that –

Greg raised his hand to make Mycroft understand that he would stay still – an unnecessary precaution, but better safe than sorry – and listened. Yes, there was a distinct murmur somewhere at the back. He stayed rooted to the spot for another minute, to make sure he wasn't imagining where the sounds came from, then started moving forward.

The murmurs slowly grew louder, but they were still to indistinct to make out what they were saying. He thought only one person was talking – probably Moriarty. Greg had never seen the consulting criminal, but what he had been able to piece together through John's blog entries, the news reports about Richard Brook and the few hints that Sherlock had let drop, he was certainly a man who would give orders and expect them to be followed. And since Moran had been so desperate to avenge him, he was obviously not the one to argue with him.

He knew Mycroft listening just as attentively, and he wished he could ask him, but they couldn't risk being heard. So slowly, agonizingly slowly, they crept forward. Thankfully there were enough crates and garbage lying around to shield them.

Greg thought he could indentify Moriarty's voice, once they were close enough; he had sought out the programmes of the "story teller" that Richard Brook had been after Sherlock's suicide and had watched them again and again, angry at himself and the world for not realizing that a dangerous criminal had built himself a double identity.

He turned around for confirmation, and Mycroft nodded once.

It was indeed Moriarty.

Eventually, they were close enough to understand snippets of the conversation.

"Sebby, there is no reason why we shouldn't. There are no difficulties – and if they are, they are there to be conquered, aren't they? It wouldn't be any fun otherwise."

A shiver ran down his spine, and without yet having stood in front of him, he could understand why Sherlock had considered him a challenge.

They moved even closer, and Greg was confident that they would soon catch a sight of the consulting criminal, when he cheerfully cried, "Come out! Hiding isn't polite, is it?"

Helplessly, he caught Mycroft's eyes, and the British Government pointed in the direction the voice came from, his face grim. Apparently he didn't think pretending was of any use, and Greg had to agree with him. If the man was half as dangerous as his games with Sherlock suggested, it was better to play with open cards.

When they stepped into the men's line of sight, Greg stared at the most dangerous criminal the city had ever known. He was shorter than he had thought, and there was an almost maniacal gleam in his eyes.

Moriarty smiled.

"The Inspector and the Government himself! To what do I owed the pleasure?"

Greg felt a shiver run down his spine; his left hand clenched into a fist. The consulting criminal sounded utterly unconcerned, and the DI had to fight the temptation to shoot him on the spot.

"Now, now, Sebby, put down your weapon. They are our guests."

He patted the sniper's arm; Moran had drawn his gun as soon as Greg and Mycroft stepped out of the shadows, and the DI had trained his weapon on him. He kept it that way, even after the sniper had let his arm drop.

"Greg".

Mycroft's voice brooked no argument, and Greg let his hand sink. Moriarty's grin was almost enough to make him ignore the request, but only almost.

"What can be the reason for this visit? You are not still angry about my and Sherlock's disagreement, are you? No one forced him to sacrifice himself – or at least to pretend to."

Before Greg could answer Mycroft did.

"That is not why we are here."

Moriarty tilted his head to his side.

"You – Oh!" He took a few steps towards them, almost bouncing with energy.

"You managed to remember, didn't you? I am impressed. I bet it does get difficult, though?"

Greg forced himself not to act on these taunts like the consulting criminal expected – by searching his memories and realizing that it was indeed getting difficult to remember – but instead kept his eyes on Moran. Mycroft was more than capable of dealing with Moriarty, he was assured; but the sniper was obviously nervous, and if he chose to raise his gun again, Greg would be ready.

"This just got much more exciting!" He exclaimed. "What are you planning to do?"

This time, it was Greg who replied, slowly and carefully.

"We want to bring back Sherlock and John."

He had heard and read about the games Moriarty had played, and he didn't want to be a part of it. They had a goal, and they would do everything to reach it.

The consulting criminal's face fell.

"You are no fun" he whined. "And I can't, anyway."

Greg could have sworn his heart stopped.


	20. Chapter 20

Once more, John was grateful that he not only always took his gun with him when they left the flat to investigate, but also that Sherlock had started to carry one as well; neither his nor his friend's counterpart carried weapons, and he was starting to wonder how they had survived this long.

John, obviously feeling his doubts, began, "I know baritsu. And Bill is helpful in a lot of different ways besides carrying a gun".

He was simply stating a fact, obviously too preoccupied to tell the doctor that he considered his worries idiotic, and Bill gently continued, "We both know how to defend ourselves. It's just – I never felt comfortable with weapons".

John simply nodded and without even sharing a glance, he and Sherlock stepped forward. When the other men tried to protest, Sherlock simply shot them a glare and hissed, "We don't know if he is armed."

He didn't have to add that it was likely he was. And he was certainly more than ready to commit another murder; aside from the fact that he had already killed Pike, it would grant him more possibilities of changing their world.

Bill and John silently agreed and they slowly moved towards the door of the greenhouse after they had switched off their flashlights; they couldn't risk Trevelyan to notice them, despite the darkness that made it almost impossible to see where they were going. Trevelyan had to have some form of light source, John guessed; otherwise he wouldn't feel comfortable, and he wouldn't expect anyone to find him, so he would think it safe to use it. It would give away his exact location, and they could surprise him. Plus, they were four against one.

John swallowed: He couldn't understand why he was so nervous. He had been a soldier, and he had been in far worse situations – and yet there was a sense of foreboding he couldn't escape. He fought the temptation to move closer to Sherlock. They had to spread out; it would make a successful attempt to capture Trevelyan more likely.

Still, he wished the others would carry a gun. Baritsu was certainly practical; he had seen Sherlock use it on several occasions; but it wouldn't be of much use if the scientist opened fire.

With a heavy heart, he gesticulated towards them, and without another word, they slowly came to stand on the sides of their counterparts, if a little behind them because the doctor wouldn't allow them to go in first.

With one last look at Sherlock, who nodded, he stepped forth and opened the door.

It opened noiselessly, and John breathed a sigh of relief. Apart from the fact that Trevelyan had to be there if it was unlocked – he didn't think the employees normally let their doors open – it was a quiet night, so quiet that Trevelyan would be able to hear every small noise that they made, and a squeaking door would undoubtedly have alerted him to their presence.

He moved before Sherlock could, and was ready to bet that his friend was rolling his eyes at his "heroic tendencies" as he had once called them, but didn't care.

The green house was huge, and aside from the light of the moon and the stars filtering through the glass, it was dark.

He took a step forward, then another. He more felt than heard the others following him, all of them thankfully used to move silently while looking for a suspect.

The plants hanging into the paved way made it more difficult to walk without making a noise, but they managed.

Even in the dim light, John could see signs that pointed towards this glass house not being open for visitors; once or twice, he almost stumbled over a ladder, and a few of the glass panels were covered up for some reason.

Trevelyan could be anywhere, he realized with a sinking heart. They could have walked past him – it wouldn't be difficult to hide among the plants and allow any intruders to come to the conclusion that no one was here after all.

Sherlock managed to grasp his shoulder while simultaneously avoiding Bill and John running into him.

John turned around – they were standing close, they had to, otherwise silent communication wouldn't be possible because of the lack of light – and looked into his friend's face.

Sherlock raised his right hand, the one with the gun, his left hand still holding unto John's shoulder, and pointed.

Far away – although it could be near, it was difficult to say – there was a glimmer of light.

It could be nothing. But it could be Trevelyan.

John signed to show he had understood. They would have to leave the path, but it was a risk they had to take. If Trevelyan was hiding here somewhere...

He still went first. He was the best shot – this was not the time for being modest – and he had survived one gun wound already. Two, if one counted the graze he'd received during a case a few months back; Sherlock had almost shot his attacker on the spot.

The light grew stronger. He had been right; the darkness had made it look farer away than it actually was. There weren't too many plants in their way – and those who were barely reached his knees, so he supposed this green house was used for growing them before carrying them into different ones – but they still moved slowly. It was a strange feeling to move through this small wood without hearing any sound one associated with it. John knew he should be thankful that there would be no wind, but ironically he missed it. It was too calm.

He was growing worried because he couldn't hear Trevelyan. Surely the man had to move sometimes? If he was asleep, why should he keep his light on?

He wondered if any moment he would recognize the silence as that of death. Who was to say the scientist hadn't had an accomplice who'd wanted the machine, or whatever he had used to bring them here, for himself and killed him?

Once they were close enough to see that the light was emanating from a small clearing between two fields of plants John didn't recognize, Sherlock's hand on his arm stopped him once more.

A sleeping bag was lying on the floor, and there were a few water bottles standing in a corner; but there was no sign of life, or that Trevelyan had been here recently.

John turned around, waiting for Sherlock to tell him how to proceed, when he saw the consulting detective's face in the light falling on them from the clearing; he was clearly looking at a particular spot, his brows furrowed.

John had been about to ask if his flatmate considered it better to wait or investigate the clearing; but he knew this look.

Sherlock had noticed something.

The other John, who had been quiet and accommodating until this point, suddenly pushed himself forward and came to stand beside the doctor. He wore the same expression on his face.

Both were looking at the same dark spot. John couldn't see anything, but he trusted Sherlock. Trusted them.

Before he could advance, however, the consulting detective's voice echoed through the green house.

"Doctor Trevelyan, I think you will agree that playing hide and seek would be a waste of our time".

There was a movement just outside the lightened part of the clearing, and John's grip on his weapon tightened.

Doctor Trevelyan stepped out of the shadows. John had seen pictures of him in the file Mycroft had brought over; he was a tall man in his late forties, his hair already grey, with brown eyes who seemed to look right through anything and anyone; the doctor was surprised how – reliable he looked. He was smiling, and if he hadn't known him to be a murderer and a madman, he would have thought him trustworthy.

He knew, however, and he trained his gun on the man.

Doctor Trevelyan sighed.

"I can't see much, but I assume Doctor Watson has a gun. Would you do me the favour to step into the light?"

Sherlock moved, and the others followed. Trevelyan smiled at them benignly.

"It's good to finally meet you, Mr. Holmes. You have to believe me that I didn't intend to bring you with me – but your surprised me, and I couldn't afford that I would be prosecuted for harming you two once I returned. Now, your brother only investigates your disappearance."

"You know Mycroft" Sherlock replied drily. "He will not believe you, should you reappear without us and claim you were kidnapped or whatever lie you choose to cover your tracks with."

"I won't have to lie to Mycroft Holmes" he answered. "I have been in contact with a – business partner of mind for quite some time".

John shuddered when he realized he could only mean Moriarty, but in the next moment he saw it wasn't possible. After all, Moriarty had only been saved a few hours ago –

"A paradox" Sherlock interrupted his thoughts. "Interesting."

"Aren't they?" The scientist asked gleefully, before his face became serious.

"I would have enjoyed discussing the subject with you very much, Mr. Holmes, but sadly I cannot allow you to endanger my plan any longer."

"Which is?" the other consulting detective demanded.

Trevelyan shot him a disapproving look.

"I had so little money to pay my research with... I had to do something".

"That's your plan?" John inquired. "Ruling the world because you had to improve the conditions in science laboratories?"

"Science is everything, Doctor Watson. Now, if you will excuse me..."

"I don't think so" Sherlock said.

"Mr. Holmes, you disappoint me. You must know that I wouldn't get myself captured. Then again, your friend's counterpart has no idea who I've talked to in his world."

"Do you – "

John turned to look at John Watson, and there was excitement as well as fascination in his eyes, and he recognized it. He knew what was going on.

"You didn't even know you had your own consulting criminal" Trevelyan said, almost sounding bored.

He took a step back.

"And now you will have to excuse me, gentlemen – "

John pressed the trigger of his gun – they couldn't allow him to get away, and he aiming for Trevelyan's shoulder – when he noticed a red point on Sherlock's chest. Before he could process what was going on, a body collided with his own.

In the next second, several shots rang out.


	21. Chapter 21

"What do you mean?" the DI demanded before Mycroft could stop him. He had most likely planned out this talk. But Greg had to know. Trevelyan had brought Moriarty back to life; they had have had some form of contact. And the consulting criminal had to at least suspect how he had been saved.

He had to. And they would make him tell them, no matter what they had to.

Moriarty raised an eyebrow at him, and he tried to imagine what it must have been like for Sherlock and John to meet him for the first time. He knew about the pool, he knew that Moriarty had kidnapped John and used him to threaten Sherlock, he knew what had taken place between him and the consulting criminal on the rooftop.

It was strange to imagine now that Sherlock had once been excited at the prospect of a criminal who could challenge him, now that he had heard the consulting detective had faked his death to save his friends' lives. Sherlock had changed. He was neither the young man who'd broken into a crime scene nor the consulting detective who had never cared for human contact. Moriarty, though, hadn't changed. He was still like he'd always been, a monster enjoying inflicting pain, playing games.

All it took was him raising an eyebrow to make the temptation to shoot him almost overwhelming. It was easy to see why. The gesture was so familiar; Sherlock did it all the time.

"What I mean, Detective Inspector? I mean that I can't bring them back."

"And why not?"

He knew that Mycroft was most likely not happy with the direction this conversation was taking, but he couldn't help it. Sherlock and John were out there, and there had to be a way –

"Because Doctor Trevelyan has the only device that enables a man to enter a different dimension in existence, and since he is in another world as we speak, I can't reach him" Moriarty explained. "We will just have to entertain ourselves" he added cheerfully.

"I don't like your form of entertainment."

"I thought so. The good friend, always listening to Sherlock. You just want to save them, don't you? Boring."

He looked at Mycroft.

"What about you, Big Brother? We had a very profitable arrangement, didn't we?"

Greg felt Mycroft stiffen beside him. That wasn't good. He was always calm and collected, and if he were to lose his temper now – this man had cost his brother years of his life. With his help.

He wouldn't blame him if he killed Moriarty. He would gladly do so himself.

And the consulting criminal knew, he was sure. He knew they would gladly rid the world of him, he knew they couldn't, and he was having fun. He was mocking them, taunting them with his survival, waiting for one of them to crack.

"I fail to see how our "arrangement" would be considered "profitable" for either of us" Mycroft replied. He sounded as calm as always.

Maybe he wasn't about to get angry. Greg thought he knew him better than most, but he couldn't be sure.

"We both got what we wanted. I might have lied, but you demanded information, not the truth".

Mycroft's right hand, the one Greg could see, half-clenched into a fist; he relaxed it again immediately, but of course the other man had noticed.

"Not that much of an Ice Man after all" Moriarty commented; it wasn't clear if he was amused or disappointed, maybe a bit of both. The banter, if it could be called that, continued, but Greg wasn't paying attention to their conversation; instead he was thinking about what the consulting criminal had said until now, one sentence repeating in his mind.

_We both got what we wanted._

But what had Moriarty wanted? Sherlock's death? He couldn't have meant that because Sherlock was alive. Sherlock's disappearance? What good would that have done? If anything, Moriarty had been bored in the three years...

And then he understood.

Moriarty had wanted to die.

He had probably been bored, bored even with his games and Sherlock, and wanted it to end. He'd been the spider, he'd broken into the Tower of London; maybe he had wished to go out at the height of his career.

It had been suicide, Sherlock had told him. Moriarty had chosen to kill himself on that rooftop.

The consulting criminal had wanted to die. And Trevelyan had taken his choice from him.

A strange hope flared in Greg's chest. It was crazy, and unbelievable, but still...

Why should Moriarty tell them he couldn't bring Sherlock and John back? There was no fun in that. If he had said he could, he would have been able to use Mycroft and Greg as his puppets, their consulting detective and his doctor as leverage; but he had simply admitted that he didn't know how to –

Of course. Puppet.

Trevelyan could change time. Trevelyan had changed time. Moriarty had been brought back against his will – he might not have a problem with that, though, as long as there someone to occupy his mind, in this instance Mycroft and Greg. But he would always be dependent on Trevelyan. If he could change his decision to end his life, he could change everything. Moriarty would never be sure that what he was doing was what he wanted to do. Maybe it was simply Trevelyan, once more changing the world they knew.

And Moriarty wouldn't want that. Moriarty wouldn't be able to stand being controlled.

He had told Moran not to do anything. He obviously wasn't scared of them, but then, he never had been scared...

And yet... What if Greg was right?

Mycroft thought of everything; the theory had probably already crossed his mind and he had rejected it –

But Greg had been a police officer for many years, and this might be one of the situations where logic didn't help you. His theory was more of a feeling, really, flittering through his consciousness, having taken root and refusing to leave.

And yet he was confident that he was right.

He shook himself out of his thoughts to find that Moriarty was looking at him; there was still glee in these eyes, he had fun, but at the same time... There was weariness too, one Greg had never imagined when he'd heard and read about him.

He didn't appreciate being forced to have fun. The DI didn't know how he could be sure, but he was.

Again, this had nothing to do with logic, so Mycroft probably hadn't believed it worthy of consideration.

He bit his lip.

On the one hand, this was the man who had made the lives of his friends a living hell... and his own too, to be honest. He had caused Sherlock to disappear.

One the other hand, he was clever, and he would be a useful ally against Trevelyan.

He wished he could talk to Mycroft alone. He couldn't tell what the British Government was thinking.

He decided that it would be better to listen again.

"You will understand that it is in your best interest to follow us, Mr. Moriarty".

The atmosphere was growing tense, and Greg saw Moran's fingers twitch, the sniper ready to pull his gun. Moriarty grinned.

"And what good would that do? I told you I can't bring your brother back – and really, it is a little strange how desperate you are now, considering you were more than happy to let me out –"

"If you don't, you'll just be Trevelyan's servant, and I don't think you want that" Greg interrupted him, surprised at how confident he sounded.

Mycroft shot him a glance he couldn't read, and Moriarty looked, really looked at him for the first time since they had arrived.

Silence fell between them. He could tell that Moran was growing more nervous, and he had troubled not to look away from the piercing stare.

When Moriarty spoke after a few moments that felt much longer, he didn't say what Greg had expected him to.

"I see why Sherlock keeps you around. Capable of surprising people. Interesting."

He experienced a strange mixture of slight panic and pride that the consulting criminal considered him interesting.

He looked at Mycroft, who was studying him, frowning. Then understanding dawned on his face, so subtle that few would have noticed it.

He didn't have to say anything; Mycroft took over the conversation once more.

"I assume you will come with us".

It was a statement, and Moriarty sauntered over, looking pleased.

"Why not. After all, there is a madman out there who could change everything we know. We have to stop him."

Moran moved, and the consulting criminal turned around to glare at him.

"Sebby, resume your duties." For a moment, Greg thought the sniper would protest, but then he closed his mouth and nodded.

"Shall we, gentlemen?"

They didn't answer, but turned around.

Without a look back, Moriarty walked out of the warehouse at Greg's and Mycroft's side, obviously comfortable with his company.


	22. Chapter 22

The body that had slammed into his – Bill, John thought distractedly, he was taller than him – propelled him in right into Sherlock, causing all three of them to fall down; John on top of his friend, Bill on top of John. The other man rolled off of him, and John felt something warm and wet travel down his back, but didn't have the time to look if he had been injured; he grasped Sherlock's shoulder, his eyes travelling over his body, desperate to reassure himself that the consulting detective was unharmed.

"Sherlock?"

His friend looked dazed from the fall, but when he shook his head his eyes cleared so there probably wasn't any damage done.

At the same moment he felt the relief wash through him though, another bullet hit the ground next to them and John called out "Bill!"

They turned to find his counterpart crouched over Sherlock's, who was holding his shoulder.

They were at their side in an instant, and while John gestured towards Sherlock to help him drag the injured man behind the big plants on the edge of the clearing so the snipers wouldn't have a clear shot, the other consulting detective, apparently unmoved by the fact that they were still being shot at, grabbed John's gun that he had let fall next to Bill and took one precise shot in the dark.

There was a scream and the sound of a body falling on the floor.

John didn't have time to dwell on what had just happened, and thankfully John Watson put the gun away and helped them carry Bill.

The shooting didn't stop after they had made their way out of the line of fire, without anyone else being injured in the process, but it became less frequent.

John looked over the wound.

"Only a through-and-through" he breathed. "Nurse?"

He'd said it automatically, an old reflex from his time working on soldiers in the field, and he could hear Sherlock scoff as the consulting detective gave him his scarf to stop the bleeding as Bill's flatmate was obviously uncomfortable because he could do nothing.

"John is a doctor" Sherlock stated as he watched his best friend work on the wound.

He nodded once, then began talking to Bill.

"Getting shot like this shows a lack of self-preservation".

"As if you – " he winced as John pressed harder on the wound "would have done anything different."

"Thank you" the doctor said quietly, bandaging his shoulder with the scarf. "If you hadn't – "

Sherlock would have been wounded seriously, if not fatally. John swallowed.

"You're welcome. I figured if I hit you hard enough..."

He coughed.

"At least no one was killed".

"That's not correct" Sherlock said immediately, his eyes fixed on the consulting detective.

"What – " Bill immediately turned his head, although John told him to lay still, to once more look at his friend, and seemed relieved to find that he was indeed well and not a figment of his imagination.

"Who?"

"John killed one of the snipers. At least I have reason to think he fired a fatal shot."

Bill raised an eyebrow and was about to address a question to the doctor, when his friend said, "It was me".

"You? You don't carry a gun."

"I took John's."

"Why?"

Sherlock knew the answer, and he suspected Bill did as well. He simply needed to hear it.

"He hurt you" John said simply, surprising Sherlock; he would have thought he wouldn't like admitting the truth. Maybe he had underestimated him; just because he hadn't played games with Moriarty he didn't have to be as cold anymore as Sherlock had once been.

Bill didn't reply, but his small smile was answer enough.

"See if you can stand up" John announced, and with his and his flatmate's help, Bill was soon on his feet, if a bit unsteady.

There hadn't been a shot fired during the last two minutes, but they couldn't risk to step into the clearing again. The snipers might simply be looking for them, moving noiselessly through the dark.

But they had to look for clues. Trevelyan had disappeared, and he had told them that there was a consulting criminal out there.

The best course of action would be to check on the sniper John had shot, Sherlock decided, and he explained what he was going to do; when the doctor tried to argue that he shouldn't go alone, and that he couldn't accompany him, because Bill needed a few more moments to catch his breath and John couldn't leave him, the other consulting detective stepped forward and, handing the doctor back his gun, said, "We'll be back soon."

They moved as quietly as they could, Sherlock's weapon drawn at all times, John behind him. It didn't take them long to find the body. John had shot him in the heart, more out of luck than anything else, Sherlock thought.

The sniper had been young – not older than thirty-five – and had fallen without a cry. He looked almost peaceful, if one ignored the wound in his chest.

Sherlock quickly bent down and searched his pockets while John looked for clues in the vicinity.

He found a burn phone in one pocket and quickly went through the menu; he found a text message that had obviously been sent to every member of the "team" present that ordered them to retreat after fifteen minutes.

"We are safe for now" he called out, and the other man didn't question him but widened the radius of his search.

The text had most likely come from another burn phone, and there was nothing in his pockets to identify the man; Sherlock was about to give up and join John when he saw something stick out from under the body.

It was a small matchbox with the logo of a pub Sherlock was familiar with on the front; it was located in the North of the city, and he had long suspected it of harbouring certain elements within its walls. Until now though no case had led him there.

He showed it to John, who took a picture both of the matchbox and the man's face on his smart phone and started typing a text.

"I'll send them to Greg. He certainly knows the pub. He will know what to do."

"I am certain he will" Sherlock answered, still finding the thought of his DI as a member of his homeless network disconcerting.

They wandered back to their friends, quickly informing them that they snipers had gone. Bill had regained his colour and was standing without help.

"We have a lead" Sherlock explained as they made their way out of the Botanical Garden, "Greg is working on it as we speak".

John shot him a confused look until he remembered which Greg he was speaking off.

The other consulting detective kept his eyes fixed on his friend, who looked even better than before they had left the green house, if a little shaky from blood loss, proving that John had been right about the through-and-through.

The doctor would of course clean the wound once they were back at 221B, but Sherlock wasn't concerned for Bill's health, not when he had John Watson to look after him.

They caught a cab not too far from the Gardens and where soon back in the safety of the flat.

Before John could say a word, his counterpart was putting a medical kit in his hands.

"You know where it is?" Bill asked, his eyes widening.

"I am capable of tending to my own injuries."

"I forgot" he replied sarcastically before taking off his shirt with help from the doctor and allowing him to clean his wound, occasionally hissing.

No one talked; Sherlock was thinking about the consulting criminal in this world. It obviously wasn't Jim; he wasn't trying to conceal anything, and his friendliness wasn't an act, Sherlock was sure. But who else could it be? Apparently someone who had been careful to never appear, not even as a whisper, not even like Moriarty had before Sherlock had heard from him, or rather, he had noticed Sherlock.

They would have to go through files on cold cases to see what this consulting criminal had done.

John got a text as the doctor finished bandaging Bill's arm and read it out loud.

"Greg believes he has identified the man. There is also a witness that is ready to talk to us."

"Go" John said. "I'll stay with Bill. It's nothing serious, but I'd like to be sure."

His eyes swept over the bandage again, and for the first time Sherlock wondered what it meant to John to see him injured. He knew that Bill wasn't him, of course, but it couldn't be easy. Especially since he'd lost him once already and had been more careful when it came to chases and treating wounds than ever since Sherlock's return.

He briefly squeezed John's shoulder to show that he understood and left the flat together with the consulting detective.


	23. Chapter 23

It felt surreal, walking down the street with the consulting criminal between himself and the British Government. For the first few blocks, Greg kept his hand on his gun, but when he realized that Moriarty was indeed content to go with them and that nobody was following them, he put it away. He would have thought that Moran wanted to help his employer, but apparently his fear was greater than his affection.

"I assume we're going to your mansion, Mr. Holmes?" Moriarty asked politely.

Mycroft nodded.

"Makes sense" he continued cheerfully. "I think your employees would be surprised if we showed up".

More than that, Greg thought. Moriarty would be arrested or worse, and then they wouldn't be able to use him to help the others.

If he wanted to help them. If Greg had taken anything from the stories he had heard, it was not to underestimate this man. He might still be working with Trevelyan, and not for Trevelyan; and should that be the case, he would gladly do anything to stop them. After all, Mycroft had told him about the paradoxes – Moriarty and Trevelyan being in contact all this time, even though he'd only just been saved; maybe he had been the one to contact the scientist in the first place...

He shook his head; he couldn't allow himself to get confused. If his memories were replaced, he wouldn't be of any use.

From the sly look Moriarty sent his way, he decided the consulting criminal knew, but at the moment didn't wish to do anything about it.

At the moment being the important part.

Greg had never considered what Sherlock would have been like if he had chosen a different side; if he had become a criminal. The consulting detective had been a great man when they had met, and over time had become a good one, and a friend too, so why should he have.

Now he knew what would have happened. What he would have been like. Moriarty's happiness at not being bored, happily going with them even though it was far from safe –

It all reminded him so much of Sherlock that his throat constricted.

Only that Moriarty certainly had never cared so much for another human being to give up three years of his life to keep them safe.

Sherlock had chosen to be human; even when he had insisted to call himself a high-functioning sociopath, he had chosen to be human. He wouldn't have picked John Watson as his flatmate or Greg as his DI or spent money on his homeless network, paying in advance for investigations that might not bring anything, otherwise.

Moriarty had taken the opposite path. He had become a monster, someone who played with people's lives. The only reason Sherlock had outwitted him was that in the end, he had proved too human for the consulting criminal to comprehend.

He wondered if Moriarty saw it the same way, or if he believed Sherlock boring now too.

He forced himself not to look at him. Mycroft, he was sure, kept his eyes straight forward, but he couldn't risk a glance because Moriarty would certainly realize what he was thinking and he wasn't going to give him any more entertainment. He might be forced to work with him, but that didn't mean he had to be more than polite.

A few streets further, they finally took a cab, and thankfully the cab driver didn't remember the man who had proclaimed Sherlock Holmes a fraud.

It was funny. When Sherlock had heard the consulting criminal's name for the first time, he had been sitting in a cab, and now they were driving to Mycroft's mansion with Moriarty, in hopefully the last case he would ever be involved in.

Suddenly, he realized that they were about to commit murder – even though others might be quick to point out that they were simply assisting Moriarty to do what he had wanted to do, and that only if he chose to let them; but for Greg, murder stayed murder, and if in the end someone was dead because of something they had done, it was murder.

Then again, not long ago, he had been ready to shoot him, and he still was, if he tried anything. Maybe he simply didn't like the thought to do what Moriarty wanted.

He looked out of the window and tried to look relaxed. He probably didn't succeed, but he had to try. He wasn't going to allow someone who had caused Sherlock so much pain to mock him.

Mycroft's house was still how he remembered it, and he felt strangely relieved at that. Of course it would be just like always, he chastised himself; why shouldn't it? Moriarty's survival couldn't have changed everything. And yet here he was, ready to cry because a house hadn't changed.

They had to get Sherlock and John back soon.

Mycroft showed them into the living room and told them that he would get Trevelyan's file – obviously to allow the DI to see if Moriarty was lying, the British Government had to know it by heart – and left the room.

Greg had no intention to talk to Moriarty and was prepared to pull out his gun at any suspicious movement, but the consulting criminal surprised him by saying, "I can see it" while happily sitting on the sofa, taking in the room. The DI supposed he had often wanted to enter Mycroft's home, but never been able to. There was every reason to think the elder Holmes had a better security system than Downing Street.

"What?" he asked, more because he felt it necessary than because he wanted to know the answer.

"Why Sherlock puts up with you. I knew, of course, that you were his favourite policeman, and for a short time, before he came along, I actually considered you as the only one who could possibly endanger me, but now I see why."

He didn't ask for the reason; was determined not to ask for the reason. He and Sherlock never talked about their relationship, so he wouldn't do it with his worst enemy.

"You have instinct. Not much in the brain, but instinct. You know. You look at people and you know. That's why Sherlock thinks you useful" Moriarty continued, and Greg had to resist the urge to punch him. He was more than useful. He was a friend; he was Sherlock's friend. Sherlock had told him so himself, when he had admitted why he had faked his death, and Moriarty knew it, since he had threatened Sherlock with the possibility of losing his friends. He was trying to get Greg to lose his temper, to shoot him and therefore not having to help them.

He wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

"Like I said" he added, "I can see why."

Apparently he hadn't believed it would work, but had tried anyway and it told Greg how desperate he was. He must be right; someone like Moriarty wouldn't appreciate being controlled.

The silence was broken by a call from Mycroft.

"Greg?"

He sounded desperate, and scared, and Greg ran as fast out of the room as he always did when Sherlock was in trouble. He could hear Moriarty chuckling, but he didn't care as he quickly moved up the stairs, drawing his gun.

What he found wasn't what he had been expecting.

He didn't pay attention to the other rooms on the floor, the light from the open door making it obvious where Mycroft had gone. He rightly thought that it must be his bedroom.

But it looked different than he would have believed. At least in their reality.

It was full of pictures and maps. The pictures were almost exclusively of Moriarty, with a few of members of his web, especially Moran, in between.

It was obvious what Mycroft had been trying to do.

Would have been trying to do, he reminded himself as he grew dizzy, and his new memories wanted to reassert themselves. He held on to the doorframe and put away his weapon because it was clear that Mycroft wasn't being attacked.

He was standing in the middle of the room, a hand on his forehead, shaking.

Greg carefully moved closer, all the while repeating to himself what he knew. They hadn't considered what Mycroft's house, or rather his bedroom, would look like with Moriarty alive; his relief at finding it unchanged a few minutes ago seemed so laughable.

"What was I looking for?" Mycroft mumbled. "What was I looking for?"

"Trevelyan's file" Greg answered gently. "You remember? We need it so we can get rid of Moriarty – "

"Moriarty?" he demanded, and the DI began to doubt that it had been the best thing to say.

"He's in the living room."

The words slipped out without his permission, a ferocity to them that proved this room had brought changed upon him too, but he was still able to block Mycroft as he tried to rush out the room, intent to do what they would wish they could.

"Mycroft" he said sternly, shaking him by the shoulders, something he would never have thought of doing a few minutes ago, "Remember. He wasn't alive. Trevelyan saved him."

For a moment, Mycroft stood there, staring at him, and he feared he had lost him; but then he shook his head, freed himself, and stated, "Of course. The file".

It wasn't much, but Greg could hear the thankfulness in his voice, and he left to make sure Moriarty was still where he had left him. He would have liked to stay, but he knew Mycroft wouldn't like it, would tell him that he had to remember himself.

Moriarty was indeed still there, waiting for him.

"Did the Ice Man have problems? I thought he wouldn't have. After all, memories are connected to emotions."

"You said he wasn't much of an Ice Man" Greg argued, even as he knew he shouldn't. Moriarty wanted to make him angry, and it wouldn't do anyone any good if he allowed it.

"You really are the glue that holds them together. So wonderfully ordinary and yet useful. John isn't all that normal, I've come to realize; adrenaline junkies, always a force to be reckoned with. But you..."

Greg didn't answer. Mycroft entered the room shortly afterwards, not surprised that Moriarty was sitting on the sofa, and he registered that the British Government had managed to remember. For now, at least. They had to restore things to normal soon. He could feel the memories, the false memories that were right, if only at the moment, at the back of his mind, trying to take a hold.

"Here is Trevelyan's file" he said smoothly, obviously not interested in discussing what had just happened. If he ignored it in the hope of keeping Moriarty ignorant of their weakness, it was in vain; but –

Moriarty didn't feel like a human. But considering his own decisions had been changed –

He had to have some form of emotion when it came to his own fate. And Mycroft would know that. Of course they didn't discuss what had happened with each other; they both knew where the other stood.

Despite Moriarty's comments, Greg would have felt more useless by the second, if he wasn't convinced that he helped Mycroft to remember by his presence.

"I have gone through it again; there isn't much to..."

Mycroft trailed off, and Greg was concerned he had trouble remembering again until he realized he was staring at Moriarty, his brows furrowed.

It took him longer to understand, but he did.

Moriarty looked too happy for someone who didn't know to defeat someone he needed out of the way.

"Anytime you want to tell us what's going on" he began, careful not to lose his temper. It would make it even more difficult to hold on to his memories.

"Haven't you realized yet? Trevelyan is too clever. He would never risk – "

"Being trapped in a parallel universe" Mycroft interrupted him. "There has to be a way to get him back."

He looked at Greg. They were thinking the same.

Whatever could bring Trevelyan back could return Sherlock and John to them too.


	24. Chapter 24

They decided to walk; the pub wasn't that far away, and on the chance that they were being followed, it would be easier to spot them if they were on foot instead of in a cab.

"Did Greg mention why his informant chose to talk to us?" Sherlock asked, already knowing the answer. He wouldn't have; John would have mentioned it. This could very well be a trap. If the consulting criminal was as dangerous as Moriarty, only less ready to take risks and play games, it was logical that he would try to eliminate the risk.

Of course the other man, who was resolutely staring down the street they were walking on, knew. But it was personal now; personal as it had been after Moriarty had kidnapped John, and nothing would stop him from following the clues.

He considered warning his colleague that they had to let the person live, whoever it was, but he knew. Naturally, he knew. That didn't mean Sherlock wouldn't have to stop him once they met the one who had wounded Bill, no matter how indirectly.

"I can control myself".

He wasn't surprised that he'd been able to follow his thoughts.

"I didn't think you couldn't" he replied tensely. He thought of a pool and the determination to blow them up if necessary.

"It's just –" John's counterpart stopped and Sherlock assumed their conversation was over. If he didn't want to talk, he wouldn't.

But then he resumed, "Everyone believes Bill is only a helper. Even he does. But he isn't. I'm meticulous, I am logical – but I will never understand humans. Ordinary humans, their emotions."

"I thought the same" Sherlock interjected, and John shook his head.

"Do not consider us the same. We are not. You are more human than I can ever be; with or without Jim."

There was no use in protesting. Sherlock had the strange urge to try, however, and he would have, if the other man hadn't continued, "Think about your John. They might call him ordinary, like they do Bill here, in the world you come from. But he was a soldier; he is an adrenaline junkie. Imagine yourself with some of the qualities he possesses, and tell me that you wouldn't be less human."

They rarely talked about John's deployments, and it was only fleetingly – a certain way he held himself, his ability to shoot an enemy at wide range – that Sherlock was reminded that his doctor was indeed a soldier.

"Bill is – " John took a deep breath. "Bill is emotional. He understands emotions to a degree that sometimes proves unsettling; I am certain he asked your friend about Jim already. Not because he deduced it, but because he felt what John must feel. He is full of empathy I can never comprehend".

There were many things Sherlock could have believed about himself – but being emotional in a different universe wasn't among them. Before he could say anything though, John asked, "What exactly did Jim do?"

"He made me choose. Kill myself or my friends would die. I outwitted him".

"And if you hadn't been able to?"

"What do you mean?"

In the isolation of three years alone, three years in a world that didn't know him and didn't care to, Sherlock had told himself again and again that he had outwitted Moriarty, not thinking (and if he did, deleting it immediately) of the consequences, of becoming a phantom. It was difficult to imagine not faking his death.

John huffed impatiently.

"If there had not been a chance of faking your death, what would you have done?"

"Jumped."

"I know. Me – I'm not so sure."

"Of course you would have" Sherlock said, almost shocked.

"I can't be certain. I would have a better chance at fighting him than my friends, and therefore it might be – "

"You shot the sniper. You would die for him" Sherlock said simply, putting an end to their discussion.

The rest of the way was spent in silence.

When they got to the pub, he didn't spot Greg immediately, but with the routine of looking for his homeless network, he soon saw him standing in the shadows at the corner of the street. Someone else was with him.

"Hey" the man who was probably looking for them in another universe began, "John" he paused and shot him a look before continuing, "Sherlock".

He wasn't surprised. He was certain the members of his homeless network would know too. People who were ignored by others were usually good watchers.

"This is Tony" Greg introduced his companion. He was a young man with red hair, looking down, obviously distraught.

"He recognized the man whose picture you sent me."

"His name is Peter Bennet" Tony said, raising his head. "He used to be in the army. We used to be in the army."

The consulting criminal of this world apparently used ex-soldiers just like his counterpart.

"He was – " Tony stopped, and Sherlock wondered what to say. As he had noticed when he had met John's old friends from the army, soldiers created special bonds during their deployments.

Normally, he would ask John to speak to him, but he only had a consulting detective who was waiting for the man to calm himself and a homeless man who was waiting for his money with him, and he would have to be compassionate.

"I am sorry" he said gently. "This can't be easy."

The man gave him the thankful look people usually gave John, and it confused him.

"It's just – I told him. I told him not to get involved with them."

"Them?" If this was an organization, like he had at first believed Moriarty to be, things just got more difficult.

"I don't know. It was just – he was so – there isn't much you can do after you leave."

He could remember how John had looked when they had met. The defeated look in his eyes, his limp. And he had been a doctor, a doctor who had actually hopes of working again someday, if he could get rid of his symptoms.

"Peter was a sniper, one of the best. Two months ago, a guy walked up to him and asked him if he wanted to work for someone."

"For who?" Asking about the messenger would be a waste of time. This Moriarty had kept under the radar, no one knew he existed. He wouldn't run around recruiting people.

"I don't know. He didn't know. Just some guy – someone who organizes things."

"You mean crimes" John said.

Tony bit his lip.

"We understand that you don't want to talk ill of him" Sherlock tried to convince him, with a patience that would have made his doctor proud, "but we need to know."

Tony took a deep breath. "Yes."

He waited a moment, then repeated, "Yes. I begged him not to do it, but he said he paid really well, and that he would never get caught. I guess he did – was it the police that got him?"

Sherlock couldn't see how he would come to this conclusion, since they were obviously not officers, but answered, "In a manner of speaking".

Tony nodded, his eyes watering. "He was a good friend. He just –"

He stopped again and Sherlock saw that John was growing impatient. He looked at Tony and willed him not to start crying.

He cleared his throat before continuing, "He told me he had shot a man a few weeks ago – Ronald Adair, I think – I read about it in the papers..."

"Ronald Adair?"

He was aware of the looks John and Greg gave him, but didn't care. Ronald Adair. The case that made him live again.

He had been shot now, instead of when Sherlock returned, but he had still been shot by a sniper, a sniper who worked for the man they were looking for, and if they went through the file and found out why he had been shot, they might deduce who Peter Bennet had been working for...

"Thank you" Sherlock said and pressed a few banknotes in his hand. He looked like he wanted to protest, but Sherlock could see his dirty clothes and hungry face, and knew he needed the money.

Tony did too, so he simply nodded and left.

Sherlock thought he had got used to Greg, but seeing him wait for his payment was still a shock. He stood there, obviously uninterested in the case or what had happened since they had last seen him, holding up his hand, like he had seen so many other men stand before him. Once he had his money, he happily bid them goodbye.

"I'll be off. Try not to get killed."

Sherlock told himself that he not only said it for the money, but also because he cared.

Once he had slipped away into the darkness, John asked, "To Scotland Yard, I assume?"

"Yes. To the Yard. I assume you have someone there?"

John nodded and they started moving.


	25. Chapter 25

Greg's first impulse, calling Sherlock, was no help. It would have been a case the consulting detective would have enjoyed, whether his brother had forced him to take it or not.

He knew Moriarty was aware what he was thinking; the gleeful expression on the man's face was enough to prove that.

"So" he said, not only to break the silence, but also to distract himself from the consulting criminal's stare, "There has to be an emergency unit or something like it. To bring him back".

Mycroft nodded. "Most likely activated by a sensor he keeps on his person."

That would be a problem. Even if they found this device, if it existed at all, and they managed to activate it without help, it could only bring Trevelyan back because he knew about it.

And they had to hold on to their memories while they were doing so.

They would have to see if Moriarty made things easier for them. He thought it more than likely that he wanted to get Trevelyan, if only for revenge; but maybe revenge was too boring for him...

He really wished Sherlock was here. Sherlock had fought against him and won. But he wasn't here, and Greg would have to do the best he could.

"It is going to be difficult to find" Moriarty announced. "And remembering..."

Greg wanted to shout at him to be silent, but it wouldn't bring anything, and he resigned himself to sit there quietly, feeling the other man's stare at the side of his head.

Apparently Moriarty was trying to get him to lose his temper. He probably thought it fun.

He took deep, even breaths and began, "Trevelyan doesn't trust anyone."

He had gathered as much from the lab and the files that had clearly only been read by a few people, and by the fact that not even his employers knew what he was working on.

Mycroft nodded.

"It will be hidden somewhere then, not being kept by another person – "

Sherlock would probably have rolled his eyes and commented "Obviously", but Mycroft listened to him patiently. Perhaps he hoped that Greg talking would help him figure it out, like John talking often did in Sherlock's case.

"I think we all agree on that".

Moriarty had to comment, of course. For a moment, Greg considered locking him into a room – Mycroft's house must be the safest in the city – but God knew what he would do once he was alone.

They would have to take him with them.

Greg vowed to keep him in view at all times.

"Do you think he keeps it at home?"

Mycroft shook his head.

"It's the first place anyone would look."

He brought his hands up to his face in prayer position, and it reminded him so much of Sherlock that Greg's throat constricted.

Moriarty didn't say anything, but the DI, who was keeping his gaze firmly on the elder Holmes while making sure that he didn't move out of the corner of his eye, thought that he probably enjoyed the show.

"It would have to be a place he knows" he said. "I am sure the Secret Service keep him under surveillance. He is rather valuable, is he not?"

The right side of Mycroft's mouth turned slightly up, and Greg knew it was the only smile he was going to get. As the British Government grabbed the file and began to peruse it again, he couldn't help but notice that Mycroft was slower than usual; and that it most likely had nothing to do with his age, even though Sherlock and John laughed every time one of them alluded to it, for reasons he couldn't quite grasp.

The fight against the memories must take a lot out of him. Since he was very intelligent, he probably could remember things more clearly than most, and therefore the wrong memories had to be stronger.

Wrong. Right. The words made less and less sense the more Greg used them in this context, and he quickly turned to keep an eye on Moriarty before he forgot what had happened.

The victorious glint in the consulting criminal's eyes made it easy to see that he had foreseen their struggle; but at the same time, he couldn't help but think that normally he wouldn't have shown it.

Moriarty hated Trevelyan. He was sure. It didn't surprise him. Sherlock had always hated any interference in his life, even when it came to drugs (before they came to see each other as friends, but he couldn't think about that now, because whenever he did, a cold feeling in his chest reminded him that he might never see him again) and Moriarty was his mirror image – what would have happened if Sherlock had chosen a different path. Greg suppressed a shudder at the thought.

Then again...

No, the man he knew couldn't have become such a monster. His friend would never have turned into this.

They had to clear up this mess. Moriarty's stare was mocking on, daring him to say something, anything.

"Do you have something?" he asked. It wasn't smart to do so – Mycroft preferred to tell people in his own time what he knew – but he didn't want to follow his trail of thought, because he would only get more and more scared that they would never get Sherlock and John back if he dwelled on them being trapped in a parallel universe, or he would start to remember and he couldn't allow that to happen.

Mycroft frowned.

"He left his house during the night on several occasions, and was followed until he managed to escape the agents somewhere near the Thames. He had always returned by the next morning, so it wasn't considered important."

Greg sighed.

"I do believe – "

Mycroft quickly took out his phone and checked something.

"There are a few houses that would allow him the privacy he'd need in the vicinity of the place he went missing. Where there aren't any neighbours to – "

He trailed off, going through the maps, Greg assumed. After a few seconds, he announced, "This one. It is the most likely option".

Greg nodded.

"So if we do find the device or whatever Trevelyan left... What do we do?"

Mycroft didn't look at him. Instead, he looked at Moriarty.

The consulting criminal shrugged his shoulders. "Are you asking me for help?"

"I am considering the possibility that Trevelyan must have told you what to do in case he doesn't return. He saved your life and you know that, shouldn't you help him, he might change other things."

"Maybe he would kill me off again" Moriarty suggested. Was that wistfulness the DI heard in his voice, or was he only imagining it?

"No. He wants you alive. He is clever but he doesn't have your... qualities. I suspect he wants to –"

"Take over the city?" Greg asked, confused. He hadn't meant to say it out loud, but the theory had shaped itself in his head, almost without him noticing.

"It has been rumoured that Trevelyan has strong opinions about how the country should be run" Mycroft replied simply. "He believes science is everything. He doesn't care for diplomacy and politics."

"But then why – "

He didn't have to finish his question.

"Balance" Mycroft answered. "There has to be an equilibrium. Trevelyan loves order, therefore he needs someone who loves chaos to help him take over."

Moriarty didn't correct him, but he didn't confirm that his suspicions were true either. Mycroft hadn't waited for it anyway, apparently, since he continued, "Trevelyan told you what to do."

"You mean in case something happens – for example a consulting detective and his faithful blogger – and he finds it difficult to return?"

Moriarty's eyes glistened.

"Of course."

They were dependent on him, and it was a feeling Greg didn't like. If Moriarty knew how to handle the device – and they had no proof – he might simply return Trevelyan and leave Sherlock and John where they were.

If Greg was right, and Moriarty hated Trevelyan, it still didn't mean that he would help them. In fact, there was every reason to think he wouldn't.

But it seemed that the consulting criminal was their only chance. Of course Mycroft could find specialists, and they might be able to find out how the device worked (supposing they found it) but they didn't have much time. Either they would forget what had happened, or Trevelyan would change more.

Neither of them asked Moriarty if he would help because they both knew he would only enjoy their questions and not give an answer; a few minutes later, they were on the way to the house that, as Mycroft explained, was rented under the name of a distant relative of Trevelyan's.

Greg felt the gun in his pocket. There wouldn't be any guards – not if Trevelyan was as secretive as they thought he was – but there might be traps.

There was only one way to find out.

Soon enough, they stood in front of the house.


	26. Chapter 26

The cab ride to Scotland Yard was uneventful, except for a text that John said Sherlock to inform him that Bill was doing fine, which he showed to Bill's friend while pretending not to see the relief on his face.

"Who is it?" he asked as they walked in the door, not many people around because the sun hadn't risen yet.

He knew John wouldn't need an explanation, and he immediately answered, "Gregson. He is not the most intelligent policeman, but he is the most reliable."

"He lets you use his office?"

"He doesn't have a choice".

No one paid them attention as they walked to the DI's office.

Sherlock had worked with Gregson, but not nearly as often as with Greg. For a good reason – like John had pointed out, he wasn't the best Scotland Yard had to over. He had however the upside of being tenacious as a bulldog once he was put on the right trail. They would never be friend. They never could have been; Gregson was nothing like his DI; and he knew that Greg despised the other man since he'd told the Chief Superintendent after Sherlock's disappearance that he'd always been suspicious of him, even as he called him in on cases. Sherlock didn't blame him. Moriarty's plan had been good, and there had been no reason to expect loyalty from Gregson. He was reliable when it came to catching suspects – so apparently things weren't as different in this universe as they could have been – but not when it concerned his career.

Which didn't mean he didn't harbour a slight resentment towards him.

He might understand his reasons, but he couldn't like him.

But he was ready to admit he had his good sides.

And he – or in this case his office – would have to so. Greg wasn't a police officer here.

He swallowed. He really missed his DI, and the environment only brought to the surface how much. He would have called Greg immediately, if he only had the chance to do so – he would have called him before Mycroft, that was sure.

He couldn't help but wonder if his friend knew how important he had become over the years, important like John and Mrs. Hudson and Molly.

"This way".

Unconsciously, he had walked to the office that would have been Greg's, if this had been the right universe, and he turned around and followed John without an explanation. He could probably deduce why.

Gregson's office was empty, as expected, and John went to his pc immediately.

"He has changed his password, but it won't take long".

It rarely did.

Sherlock looked around.

He hadn't been to Gregson's office often and it looked more or less the same; his desk clean, his walls bare.

Sherlock remembered Greg's office – rather messy, except for his desk, and full of pictures of those he cared for – and felt something he believed others would have described as homesickness. He shook himself. This wouldn't help them. He had to concentrate.

"Ronald Adair" John said, looking for the file, "did you have a similar case?"

"I solved his murder" Sherlock answered simply, and when John turned to him, his eyes enthusiastic, he added, "he was killed by Colonel Moran, the right hand man of Moriarty".

John slumped in the chair and sighed.

"I should have known".

As a matter of fact, he should. It wasn't difficult to deduce. But Sherlock knew why he hadn't, of course – he was still concerned about Bill, like he would be if something similar had happened to John. So he ignored the statement and continued, "He was a croupier who found out one of the patrons of the casino he worked in was cheating. The patron was Colonel Moran. It was how he got most of his legal money after Moriarty died."

He paused and closed his eyes to think. Obviously, Adair hadn't been killed because he had wanted to press charges against Moran; Moriarty – this world's Moriarty, despite knowing better, Sherlock couldn't help but call him by the name he had always associated with the consulting criminal – wasn't dead, therefore he wouldn't need to make money in a legal way.

Had he had anything to do with Adair's death? Jim was not Moriarty, and therefore Moran couldn't be the second most dangerous man in London.

But could he be the first? Could Moran be behind all this? This universe didn't follow any rules, as far as Sherlock could tell. Some people were different, some people were the same, some people were not exactly what they were in their universe, but shared certain characteristics.

Strangely, Sherlock felt confident that it wasn't Moran. He and Moriarty had been – not friends, but they had been useful to one another. And the Colonel had begun his life of crime because of Moriarty.

Moran wouldn't have turned out to be the second most dangerous man in London without Moriarty. He wasn't behind this.

"What are the facts?" Sherlock asked calmly after he'd reached this point. He couldn't go on without data. He had to know what had happened and work his way through it.

"He was shot through his living room window on the third floor. The killer must have fired the shot from the building opposite. The bullet was small, like –"

"It would fit in a pistol" Sherlock finished. "A special airgun. Invited by a gun maker named Van Herder. I have never seen anything like it".

John nodded, processing the information.

"No motive came to light – he was well-liked by his colleagues – he was a croupier here too – and he was apparently so honest that everyone mentioned it to the reporters and they nicknamed him "The Honourable Ronald Adair". I think his death might have been due to the same reason it was in your universe".

It seemed probable. It might be that only the murderer had changed, not the method or motive or victim.

Sherlock walked over and stood behind John.

"Show me everything".

He had never been to Adair's crime scene; he had read about the murder in a cheap motel room and had immediately known it had been Moran, and that he could finally return home. Even afterwards, he hadn't paid much attention to the proceedings, aside from making sure that Moran was locked up for life. He really regretted his negligence now. Maybe a difference could have given him a clue...

Whoever had shot him had been a sniper, there couldn't be a doubt about that.

"When was the crime committed?"

"3 pm".

In broad daylight. So the sniper wasn't exactly like Moran – he had killed Adair at night, when there was no risk that he'd be seen.

Maybe –

"His boss is still alive. This was a hit – the consulting criminal ordered Adair to be killed, and he wanted it to be done in daylight. He wanted to make a statement."

"So we are dealing with someone who is bold and allows no one to interfere" John surmised. "We already knew that."

"True." Sherlock pulled the other chair next to John's and sat down.

There had to be something – something he had overlooked – he refused to believe that he might not find out. He had to. There was no other option.

He was almost despairing when John pointed out, zooming in, "There. In the corner. Is that – "

There was a book lying on the table. It must have been placed there – there was no blood on, but all around it.

The murderer had entered the flat and placed the book on the table for all to see. He – or rather his employer – was more daring than they had given him credit for.

Sherlock knew the book; he had looked through it briefly. It was a story about betrayal and death, and he hadn't thought it interesting.

But he remembered where he'd seen it.

A thought shot through him – something he had ignored until now –

It seemed unbelievable. Naturally it did. He trusted this person; he trusted this person so much that it had never crossed his mind.

At the same time, he finally understood what the relationship between this world and his was based on. It wasn't logic. It wasn't fate.

It was potential.

John had every potential to become a consulting detective, if he had been born like the man who was sitting next to him.

Sherlock could have become Bill.

Greg, if things had turned out differently, would have been a member of his homeless network.

Moriarty, with another life, would have been a friendly man who worked in the IT department at St. Bart's.

There was one person who could have gone wrong; one person who was good and kind and had always looked after him. But if there had been a moment – perhaps in this person's childhood – if kindness had been turned into resentment, and this had later been deepened by certain elements that had stayed the same –

He didn't explain. He simply rushed out of the office, calling out to the other man.

John and Bill were in danger.


	27. Chapter 27

“I do not think they gun will help you, but it is better to be on your guard. Trevelyan surely installed traps.”

Moriarty wasn’t saying this to help them; for all his hate for Trevelyan, he wouldn’t help them, he would stand by and watch. If they died and he possessed the device, he could bring Trevelyan back and extract his own revenge. He was saying that to confuse them. Maybe not even because he wanted them to fail, but because he wanted some entertainment.

Mycroft ignored him, or acted like he did. Greg knew that he was watching the man’s every move.

The DI was certain that the possibility Moriarty might be holding something back was the only reason he was still alive.

“What kind of traps?” Mycroft asked. “You must know him rather well.”

It wasn’t particularly clever, at least from Greg’s perspective, to passive-aggressively remind Moriarty how long he had been under Trevelyan’s control, but he couldn’t deny the satisfaction he felt when the man’s face fell. Barely noticeably, but he had spent enough time around people who knew to hide their emotions to see.

“Possibly explosives, although nothing too large. Just enough to destroy the house.”

Neither of them reacted; it would have been what Moriarty wanted.

The house was dark and apparently empty.

“Window?”

Mycroft shook his head.

“It will be safer to pick the lock”.

Greg went first. He had learned many things over the years, and lock-picking was one of them. He wasn’t as good as Sherlock, but he could manage.

“What would your colleagues say?”

“Before or after they arrested you?” he shot back, but when he saw the gleam in Moriarty’s eyes he realized he was having fun and concentrated on the lock. It took him longer than he would have liked, but the door finally opened.

He turned on his flashlight and shone it into the dark house. He couldn’t see any explosives, or other traps, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. Trevelyan had built a machine that allowed him to travel to different dimensions. He couldn’t underestimate him.

Maybe there was something, a code, an eyeball scanner, that would only allow Trevelyan to enter? No, he reasoned; he wouldn’t do that. It would be evidence that he had been in the house if he was captured and someone found out what he had been doing. Highly unlikely but, as they proved, not impossible, and Trevelyan would want to be covered on all bases.

He stepped forward. Nothing. They were keeping the consulting criminal between – so that one of them had his eyes on him at all times and he couldn’t run away – but he had to admit that, as prudent as the measure had seemed at first, he would have liked him to go first.

He swallowed and took another step.

He waited until he had reached the living room to allow himself to slightly relax.

And even then, there could always be a trap in another room.

“Where?”

The question wasn’t directed at him, and for a moment Greg wondered why Mycroft thought Moriarty could answer, but apparently he was capable of it. He easily replied “The bedroom is the most likely candidate. After you”.

Greg wanted to go first again, but Mycroft pushed past him and the DI glared at Moriarty until he moved.

It was a small house, no first floor, and he was grateful for it. At least it wouldn’t take long to search, even if the bedroom proved a dead end.

Moriarty sauntered before him, obviously bored, and Greg shuddered. He would have to deal with him only a little while longer, he told himself. Either they could change things back to the way they were before, or they would make sure that Moriarty didn’t run around in another way.

Mycroft cautiously opened the bedroom door. Greg hoped he would let him go first, but the other man didn’t turn around and simply entered the room.

A few seconds later, Moriarty followed. Greg hastened to be right behind him.

In the middle of the bed, there was a machine looking like nothing he had ever seen before.

He wasn’t particularly interested in science, but he normally knew what machine could do what. But this one –

It was round, there were many buttons glowing, and it hummed.

It almost looked alive.

Mycroft was staring at it, frowning. When Greg opened his mouth to ask, he pointed at a small box that was lying under the machine, partly hidden.

“There are explosives” he explained, “and they will go off if the machine isn’t handled correctly.”

They both knew that Trevelyan wouldn’t have told Moriarty how it worked. He wouldn’t have risked that.

Moriarty said “Looks like we have a problem” and Greg couldn’t tell if he was sorry or not.

* * *

 

John soon caught up to Sherlock.

“Who is it?”

It was clear that he was puzzled, that he didn’t understand what Sherlock had seen, and the consulting detective couldn’t blame him.

He hadn’t deduced it – not really; it was a feeling, a suspicion that he couldn’t shake, that he knew to be right, that he felt must be right.

Bill and John were in danger.

“What is going on?”

He was certain that the only reason John didn’t grab him and force him to stop was that he’d informed him that their friends needed help.

He only explained once they were in the cab.

“How do you avoid being detected?” he asked, silently urging the cab to go faster.

“I don’t – “

“Of course you do. Tell me”.

John looked at him and answered, “Hiding in plain sight.”

“Exactly. No one suspects you if you are always there, if you have been there from the beginning.”

“From the beginning? But –“

For once, Sherlock wasn’t annoyed that someone needed time to figure something out. He would have to, in his universe. He had only been able to think about it because he was outsider, didn’t know this world.

If he’d been home, he would never have considered it.

“You are saying...” John trailed off, and Sherlock glimpsed the man behind the mask. This John wasn’t less emotional than his; he was simply better at controlling his emotions, and now, with him finally understanding what was going on, he was starting to crumble. Before he shook himself and the mask slipped back in place.

“The symbolism of the book – she probably couldn’t resist.” Otherwise she wouldn’t have left a clue, but everyone tended to be dramatic now and then.

“What exactly do you want to know?”

It wasn’t an unexpected question. Sherlock needed information, and he was going to give it to him.

“How did you meet her?”

It was the first time he had used the word “her”, the first time that it became more believable, more tangible, and he was surprised that he could be so calm.

In his world, he had thrown a man out of a window for her.

“I needed a place to live. She came to me with a boring case – a ring from her mother had disappeared – and I found it. Instead of paying, she gave me a special deal on the flat.”

“So you didn’t go to Florida. You never ensured her husband was executed.”

“Was that how you two met?”

John looked surprised before he continued, “No. Her husband died before she came back to England, but she doesn’t talk about him. I think she’s told Bill more than me, and I believe he was abusive.”

“He ran a drug cartel...” Sherlock began before the truth flashed through his mind. “She did. In this universe, she did.”

“Mr. Hudson was a drug lord in your universe?”

“And in this one, it was her. I don’t know why she chose to come back – maybe she feared detection, maybe she wanted a change of scenery – where you known when she returned?”

“I wouldn’t say I was well-known, but my website had attracted some attention.”

Mrs. Hudson hadn’t been looking for a ring. She had learned about John and wanted to see how good he was. And then she had made him a deal. Not because she wanted to play. She wanted to control him. To make sure he never suspected her.

He had always thought much of Mrs. Hudson. She was motherly, very intelligent, but she could be calm in the face of danger and do what she needed to do. If she had decided to do so, she could have become a formidable criminal.

He remembered how she had cried so she could hide the phone. She would be deceptive, and she wouldn’t hesitate to protect her identity from being found out.

Trevelyan knew her. They were working together.

He must have told her.

John had understood; he didn’t ask any question, simply waited for the cab to stop. It must have been the longest cab ride of Sherlock’s life, but they finally arrived.

Sherlock raced up the steps, John close behind him.

They entered the room in a hurry, and Sherlock was relieved to find John and Bill sitting on the sofa and staring at him.

Until he saw the tea set.  


	28. Chapter 28

John sprang up when Sherlock entered the room, more panicked than he'd ever seen him. Before he could say a word, he'd crossed the room with a few quick strides and was holding his head in his hands.

"John?" He recognized what his friend was doing; Sherlock was searching for signs in his eyes that he had been drugged.

"Did you drink the tea?"

"What?" he asked, because it was the last thing on his mind. The urgency in his flatmate's voice told him that he should answer though, so he replied, "No. Mrs. Hudson brought it, but we had just – "

He looked at John and Bill, who were having a similar conversation; Sherlock took the set and carried it into the kitchen.

He didn't pour everything down the sink; they would have to know what they were up against, which poisons Mrs. Hudson liked to use.

"Sherlock?"

John was standing in the doorway, his eyes wide. Sherlock watched comprehension dawn on his face.

"Mrs. Hudson? But – "

"I always told you she was stronger than she looks."

"Stronger..." he watched as another bit of tea disappeared down the drain.

"You are sure you didn't take anything?"

"I made us tea, but here. I don't think she poisoned that".

It was unlikely if she could simply bring them tea. And they showed no symptoms. Sherlock leaned against the counter and hung his head, relief washing through him.

John moved closer and clasped his shoulder.

"It's just – Mrs. Hudson? Are you sure?"

"Think of Jim".

John nodded. "Still, it seems so – "

"I know."

Sherlock still found it difficult to believe, even though he knew he was right. Thank God John had reverted to his old coping mechanism and they had already drunk tea by the time Mrs. Hudson came into the room.

"Snipers?"

He looked at John. His doctor had straightened his spine, his eyes clear, once more the soldier ready for battle.

"Most likely" he replied. "In the house opposite, or on the roof. She knows we know about her, or at the very least she knows we are after Trevelyan."

"Couldn't you have called? We would have – "

Sherlock knew that John was angry he had run into danger, especially since he could have been safely at Scotland Yard, but there had been no other way. It was more than probably that Mrs. Hudson's employees were instructed not to let anyone leave the building.

They heard a few exclamations in the living room, and John smiled weakly.

"I think Bill doesn't believe our theory".

"If it was Mrs. Hudson, our Mrs. Hudson, would you?"

He didn't answer.

"What now?"

"She will come" he said simply. "She will want to talk."

"But why? She could just – "

"She isn't Moriarty. But she must be interested."

His tone brooked no argument and John nodded before returning to the living room. Sherlock decided that he might as well do something productive and began to analyze the tea. John's counterpart soon joined him.

"This could take a while" he commented as Sherlock was preparing a sample.

"I know what I am looking for."

He did. Naturally, he did. There was one poison he had to test for before all others, and as it turned out, he didn't have to go further.

Clostridium botulinum.

Having the proof was more than being sure, he admitted. Having the proof meant that he would have to look at his landlady, who had always cared for them, and know what she was. It would be more difficult than looking at Jim, who was polite and normal here.

He could only imagine what John and Bill must be feeling. John was standing next to him, looking at the result, frowning. He listened, but no sound came from the living room and he decided that Bill had been shocked into silence.

"She has been good to us".

It was evenly said, and yet in a tone so flat, so final, that told Sherlock that John had accepted that he was right, that he had just lost someone, and he didn't know what to say. He would have called John, but he was sure the doctor was facing the same dilemma with Bill.

"I am sure she has" he said.

He thought of his Mrs. Hudson, and wondered how often theirs had brought them tea and made sure they had enough to eat and dusted; how often she had done these things and looked at them and known that she was betraying them, playing a game, enjoying it.

"I'm sorry" seemed so little, and he was certain it wouldn't be welcomed. John would recognize the futility of the gesture.

She would be here soon. The concentration of the poison in the tea had been strong enough that, even if she wasn't aware they had returned, which was unlikely, she would want to see if she had succeeded.

He motioned towards the living room, reluctant to break the silence.

It had settled between them without their permission, and no one wanted to talk, to make things easier, it seemed. Or perhaps they couldn't be made easier. He couldn't decide.

Bill looked better; the colour had returned to his face and he didn't appear to be in great pain. He was watching John, who was pacing up and down.

Sherlock sat down next to his friend.

John raised his eyebrows and he shook his head.

Not one of them wanted to talk about it. There was no use. They would wait and see what happened.

Mrs. Hudson kept them waiting. He wouldn't have expected anything else. She wanted them to sit here, listen to every sound. She wanted them to get more insecure, more nervous.

They were all used to waiting. At least they had that, if not much else.

They had their guns, it was true, but if she had snipers, and was armed herself – and both was in the realm of possibility – they couldn't risk using them.

After two hours she came.

The steps on the stairs sounded like the ones Sherlock had heard countless times in the past; when she had wanted to check on them, when she had wanted to "chat", when she had needed someone to help her carry her shopping bags.

That they didn't change at all, that she was still shuffling up to the flat as if nothing had happened, made him strangely angry.

He glanced at John; the doctor was pale, but determined, and he had his hand on his gun. He must be aware how futile the gesture was, but if it gave him comfort, Sherlock wouldn't say anything against it.

Bill was leaning against the back of the sofa, his eyes straight on the door. His flatmate was apparently unconcerned, but it was easy to see the tension in his body.

She opened the door and walked in.

"Hello, boys, I – "

She stopped and for a moment he thought she would pretend to be surprised. But when he looked at her, he only read fascination in her eyes.

Here it was then, the final proof, more final than the poison, because they saw what she was thinking. She was making no effort to hide it. Not because she thought the game was over, though; no, she probably believed that they had lost, that there was nothing left for them.

As he saw several red dots appear on his and his friend's body, he had to admit she might be right.

"You didn't drink the tea?"

"No".

It was John who answered, the John she had rented the flat to, and she walked to his chair and sat down.

"In that case we can talk".

"Mrs. Hudson".

Bill sounded desperate; there was a plea in his voice, and she shot him a look that Sherlock would have called sympathetic if he hadn't known it to be faked.

"Dear, I never wanted you to be caught up in all of this. I had to keep an eye on John, you know."

"So he wouldn't interfere with your plans".

"So he wouldn't interfere in my business" she replied, looking at Sherlock.

"You really do look like Bill. I'm glad they didn't kill you in the Botanical Gardens and that you didn't drink the tea. I wouldn't have had a chance to meet you".

"Then why did you order us killed? And try it again?" John asked.

"Trevelyan insisted on it. We are working together, so I was bound to. I did tell them to withdraw after a while, however. I was just too curious..."

"Why?" the doctor inquired. "What can you gain from working with him?"

If Sherlock hadn't been aware of the danger they were in, he could have believed this a polite conversation.

"You _are_ like Bill" she said pleasantly. "He has built a machine that can take you to, and therefore influence, other universes. Imagine what profit it could bring."

Sherlock imagined people paying for being able to change reality.

She stood up, smiling.

"I'll have to go. And I am sorry – but I can't allow you to run around. It would ruin all my plans. Goodbye, boys".

She turned around to leave and Sherlock knew that in a moment the snipers would open fire.

He did the only thing he could think off.

He screamed "Down!" and let himself fall on the floor, grabbing John and taking him with him.

A second later, the door closed behind Mrs. Hudson and all he heard were loud bangs.


	29. Chapter 29

"Can you diffuse it?" Greg asked.

He was certain that he wouldn't get the answer he hoped for. Trevelyan wasn't the man to leave a bomb with an off switch, or one that could easily be diffused. Plus, they would have to raise the device to see it, and it would certainly go off.

Which of course meant they couldn't take it with them either.

Mycroft leaned over the machine, studying the bomb carefully.

"It doesn't seem to be structured in a usual way..."

Greg didn't think about how casually Mycroft had used the word "usual" concerning bombs; instead, he kept his eyes trained on Moriarty. If he should decide to try anything while they were busy looking at –

Moriarty was studying the device and bomb too, he realized.

"Any ideas?"

He didn't know why he asked – maybe because he had decided that he might as well, considering they couldn't call anyone because any contact might change their memories; maybe because he was desperate and trying to help his friends in any way possible.

"Let me take a look" Moriarty replied simply and walked over to the bed. His eyes scrutinized everything as Greg glanced at Mycroft, who had raised an eyebrow and was studying him.

He was trying to catch his eye, silently asking what he thought he was doing and if they should perhaps stop him before he triggered an explosion when Moriarty took a step back and smiled.

"I think I can do it – it's going to be a bit tricky, but I like tricky".

"Why?" Greg demanded before he could stop himself.

Moriarty shook his head.

"You have trust issues, DI Lestrade."

He didn't reply. If Moriarty wanted to provoke him, he would have to do so after he had diffused the bomb. If he could. And if he would.

Moriarty sighed when it became clear he wasn't going to comment and said, "I think I told you I would help".

"That doesn't mean that you will" Mycroft pointed out.

"True, but this time it does."

A few seconds later, he added, "Under one condition."

"And that is?"

"You have to swear" he said, his voice even, "that you will leave Trevelyan to me".

It was obvious that he expected them to hold true to their promise once Sherlock and John and the scientist were back. His expression spoke of the earnestness of his request.

Greg swallowed. If they swore and gave Trevelyan to him, no one knew what he was going to do to the man. It might be more inhuman than killing him. On the other hand, he might use him. Trevelyan was a genius, and there were no limits to what they could do together...

He looked at Mycroft, whose face was unreadable.

"Then, of course" Moriarty continued, "it might not be worth much. Considering you didn't protect your brother –"

For one moment, Greg thought Mycroft would shoot him. Fleetingly, anger and hatred crossed his face, the face that was usually so calm. It wasn't difficult to deduce what Moriarty meant; he was ready to bet that many older siblings vowed to themselves to protect their younger ones at all costs. And Mycroft had broken this promise.

"You have my word."

The sentence fell flat in the silence, and Greg stared at Mycroft. He couldn't say whether he intended to keep his promise or not.

"Inspector?"

He looked into Moriarty's eyes and finally answered, "I promise".

He had no intention of keeping it. He had always tried to be honest, but honesty wasn't what was needed here. If Moriarty was thinking he would feel honour bond, he was mistaken.

"Good, then. Let's see what we can do."

Watching Moriarty handle a bomb was even more unsettling than Greg had thought he would, and he unconsciously moved closer to Mycroft. The British Government stood still, completely focused on Moriarty.

Greg wondered if they would die, and found that he was surprisingly little touched by the possibility. His only concern was that without them Sherlock and John wouldn't return.

"I saw something like this before..." Moriarty commented, and then he diffused the bomb.

Just like that.

Of course not immediately, and of course not without many head-shakings and mutterings, but he did it, and Greg began to suspect that he had known how to do it, that he had probably constructed it for Trevelyan or helped him procure the parts, and used this to make them promise he could have the scientist.

He looked at Mycroft and for once found it easy to read him. He was suspecting the same. But there was no disgust on his face; he was simply looking at Moriarty like one might look at someone who was a mild inconvenience, soon to be gone, and Greg was sure he would be.

There was no reason to keep the promise now, if there had been one before.

Moriarty gently lifted the device off the bomb, and before he could say anything, Mycroft told Greg to take it.

He did so and once again had the impression that it had a life of its own; lying warm and humming in his arms, it made it difficult to believe that it could send people into another universe and bring them back.

"Do you know how to – "

"Operate it? I am sorry, but Doctor Trevelyan trusts no one. He wouldn't tell me."

"We will find out" Mycroft said quietly.

Greg wondered if Moriarty ignored the silent threats that swung in this statement, the promise of what would come after they did, or if he didn't hear them. Probably the first.

"Back to your house?"

Mycroft nodded.

They soon arrived, having thankfully met no obstacles on the way, and Greg carefully placed the machine on the dining room table.

He simply couldn't make sense of it. Did they need a code? Did it probably only work when Trevelyan chose to active the sensor he carried with him? They couldn't answer these questions, and without the answers it would be difficult to do anything.

"I had all files of Trevelyan's that could be found in the lab and his flat brought here" Mycroft explained.

He had texted someone before they had left the house, obviously so they wouldn't risk meeting anyone they knew; since the files were lying on the table as well, Greg knew it could only have been Anthea.

She hadn't stayed around, even though she must be wondering what they were doing; Greg was relieved that the doubts she must be having had not yet overruled her loyalty. He believed it couldn't be long, however; Mycroft had been behaving oddly, and he was such a creature of habit that it must appear strange.

"What can I do?" he asked. He wanted to help, there had to be something he was capable of, even if it involved going through files he didn't understand.

"Yes" Mycroft said, already opening one, "Please repair to the living room."

He was opening his mouth to ask why when he saw the smirk on Moriarty's face. Mycroft must find it even more difficult to look at him than Greg. He didn't want him here while he was trying to bring his brother back.

Greg gestured for Moriarty to go first, and expected him to say something, but he didn't.

Once he had closed the door of the dining room, he sat down on the sofa. Moriarty had taken place in one of the chairs. He took his gun out of his pocket.

"Is this really necessary?"

"Of course" he answered. He wasn't about to discuss with Moriarty whether or not his security measures were of any use, but he wouldn't risk being attacked and therefore placing Mycroft in danger either.

Moriarty tilted his head slightly, regarding him with a curious mixture of weariness and something like admiration. Greg forced himself not to look away.

"If you hate me this much you could just kill me now. Surely I have outlived my usefulness?"

Only that he hadn't, and that he knew it. It was possible he was lying about the device, as he had lied about the bomb; it was possible that he and Trevelyan had another plan, and in that case, he needed to be alive to be interrogated.

His grip on the gun tightened as he continued, "You never thought there was a reason I was around? Maybe people like me have to exist for people like Sherlock to be born."

"There is no need to try philosophy on me. We both know you just enjoy chaos."

Moriarty grinned.

"Instinct. That's what makes you different from the others at Scotland Yard. Sherlock knows how to pick them."

Greg stayed silent. If Moriarty honestly wanted him to doubt Sherlock's friendship, he would have to try harder.

Half an hour later the door opened and Mycroft walked in.

Greg had expected him to take longer.

"The device can be activated" Mycroft stated.

The DI waited on the "but" that was sure to come. Mycroft's expression said it all.

"But it will only bring those that are in the immediate vicinity of the sensor."

"Are you saying – " Greg paused.

"Are you saying they have to be with Trevelyan when we activate the machine?"

Mycroft nodded.

Greg knew he was thinking the same as he.

They had no way of knowing when Sherlock and John would catch Trevelyan.

Or if they would do so at all.


	30. Chapter 30

Glass shattered as the bullets hit the wall.

"They know they can't hit us" John shouted. "Why would they – "

"Sooner or later, one of us has to get up" Sherlock answered.

"The police – "

"Do you really think Mrs. Hudson doesn't know how to deal with them?"

Sherlock quickly looked over to the others, who were lying on the floor too; Bill appeared to be in some discomfort, but it had obviously to do with his shoulder. They hadn't been injured.

"The kitchen window" John hissed.

Sherlock had thought about it too. He was certain that other killers waited for them, however.

They had to try, though. They obviously couldn't sue the front door, and the kitchen window was the only one that went round back and was easy to climb out of; and they needed an easy exit, since Bill wouldn't be able to go with them otherwise.

"Leave".

It was said so quietly that he was surprised they could hear it over the shots, but they did. John Watson stared at his flatmate.

"We are not leaving here".

"I can't climb" Bill said. "You can get out. It's logical".

"That's no reason".

John was just as calm as Bill had been when he told them to leave, and Sherlock knew he wouldn't leave him behind.

Then, something happened.

Something he could never have foreseen, for the simple reason that it was ingrained in him not to expect it. The voice that was desperately screaming a name was one he knew well, but he had never heard it vibrate with such emotion before, and he never would again.

"Bill!"

Mike was shouting, and it came from the direction of the kitchen window.

One glance at John showed him that he was thinking the same as he. Mike was in danger. If he kept shouting like that, it was only a matter of time before he was killed.

Bill knew it too, scrambling over the floor, trying desperately to get close enough to warn him.

The others moved to follow him.

"Mike!" Bill screamed, "Run! They are – "

"We have it under control, just come!"

This wasn't Mike's voice. It was Greg's.

He did care, after all, and even amidst the confusion, Sherlock was happy that he did.

They quickly robbed over the floor as more and more bullets shattered the furniture. Now and then, one flew in the kitchen too; they would need luck as well as skill so they wouldn't be hit.

"Bill" John ordered, and sensing that any argument would be useless, his flatmate climbed out of the window, hissing now and then; he let himself hang from the ledge, then fall. Judging by the sounds, his brother and Greg caught him, plus – was there someone else? It sounded like it.

"The next" came Greg's voice, and it was clear that Mike was looking over Bill; they could hear him being chastised even as Sherlock tried to push John and John tried to push Sherlock towards the window, until the doctor had enough and shoved his counterpart forward. He knew that Sherlock didn't want to leave him alone for too long.

John climbed out and jumped, and before Sherlock could listen if he was again, his friend pushed him. Resistance would be futile, so he quickly moved to the window and stood up; a bullet caused a part of the windowsill next to his right hand to fall apart, and he swung himself out and let himself fall in one swift motion.

John and Greg were holding unto him a moment later; the later grinned at him.

"One left then".

Sherlock quickly jumped away, and a moment later John stood next to him, he caught by Greg and Jim, whom he hadn't noticed before.

"We should go".

Greg didn't wait for them to reply, only turned around and ran. The others followed.

Sherlock recognized the streets he was leading them down and guessed where they would stop; and true to his suspicion they entered and abandoned house. His homeless network had used it in their universe too.

Bill let himself fall on the floor; Mike was at his side in an instant, as were Jim and John; the doctor quickly shooed them away.

"It's alright" he said after a quick examination, "he just strained himself. Let him rest."

Bill nodded, determined not to make a fuss, and John and Sherlock turned to Greg.

He shrugged.

"It was obvious you were going to do something you rather shouldn't, so – "

"So he came to me" Mike continued. "Bill had sent me a text that everything was fine, but I had my suspicions. So I called Jim and off we were".

"You fought the snipers?" Sherlock asked, incredulous.

Jim smiled.

"I can be very sneaky when I want" he replied and Sherlock turned away. The smile reminded him too much of someone, someone who was probably alive and going after Greg and his brother. He barely heard the homeless man's comment of "Yeah, I was surprised".

"What happened?" Mike demanded. "And I want to know the whole truth".

Bill told him, frankly, without concealing anything, in a way Sherlock would never have spoken to Mycroft. Mike listened, trying to hide his feelings, although it was clear that he disapproved. Sherlock couldn't blame him. No one liked to see someone they cared for injured.

Mike waited until Bill had finished. Then he slowly asked, "So you went after a criminal mastermind, who happened to be your landlady, because you couldn't arrest another criminal mastermind who had injured you?"

"Mike – "

"Bill."

There were many things he could have said and if this had been Mycroft, Sherlock didn't doubt that he would have told them what he thought; but he looked at Bill, who was stubbornly staring at the floor, and sighed.

He sat down and hugged him. Sherlock looked away, unwilling to think about the spark of jealousy he felt. They had enough to deal with.

"I'm glad you're okay". He turned to John. "Thank you".

John shrugged his shoulders, indicating that it was his job, and sat down on the floor beside Sherlock.

His doctor never reacted to thanks, even if it made him proud; he was simply doing his job, as far as he was concerned.

"What do we do?"

Bill was the one to ask the question, looking at them one after the other; his breathing had returned to normal and he didn't seem to be in any pain, so at least they didn't have to worry about him. Mike realized it too and began discussing the subtext.

"What do we do? Wouldn't it be best to – " he shook his head. "Of course not" he muttered. "What was I thinking. You will go after her, won't you?"

"We have no other choice."

It was Bill's flatmate who answered; he hadn't sat down but wandered around the room. Sherlock knew he was wondering how many clues he had missed, if Mrs. Hudson had left any, how many crimes he could have prevented if he had deduced correctly.

He knew what it was like to be haunted by these questions. He had spent three long years thinking about them every night. Only that he hadn't simply been guilty of not noticing something. He had played with Moriarty and lost, truly lost, even if some would have said he had won.

Now even that small triumph didn't matter because it hadn't taken place. Moriarty was alive and perhaps already planning to get rid of his friends.

"Mrs. Hudson will stop at nothing" John continued. "She is running a business, and she believes that we have to die so we don't become a danger to her plans. Which, frankly, is a perfectly sound analysis."

"Every killer in London will be on our heels" Bill pointed out. "How – "

"We'll have to be careful".

"You know you got us" Greg stated. "Me and some of the others."

John stared at him.

He shrugged.

"When I realized you might be in over your head, I didn't just go to Bill's brother... I asked around. Wanted to be prepared".

Sherlock remembered a moment like this too. The moment he had realized just what Greg was willing to do for him. Strangely, it hadn't been in Baskerville or when he had warned them about the arrest warrant; it had been when he had looked at him as they made their escape and simply shaken his head, allowed them to get away and not very enthusiastically searched for them afterwards.

This Greg was prepared to go up against a dangerous criminal, ready to die for his consulting detective, just like the one in their world.

Sherlock couldn't suppress the satisfaction he felt at John realizing that.

"We still have to find Trevelyan" he said calmly. Of course Mrs. Hudson was a problem – but they couldn't risk the scientist changing anything in their universe, or her doing what she wanted to this; and he knew the others would understand.

They did, if the looks they exchanged were anything to go by.

The problem was that they had no idea where he was. And that with every step they took they presented themselves to be killed.


	31. Chapter 31

"Not that I want to sound pessimistic, but it seems pretty hopeless to me", Greg said.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"So you are suggesting we stay hidden for the rest of our lives?"

The man stared at him before shaking his head, chuckling.

"It still freaks me out how much you look like Bill and act like John. No, I didn't mean that. Just wanted to say it".

"Now that we have come to the conclusion that our situation is hopeless" John's counterpart began, "we should start to go through our options".

There weren't many. They could try to attack Mrs. Hudson – at least they knew where she was – but she had certainly many other snipers at her disposal.

John put a hand on his shoulder. He turned around to his flatmate to find him looking up at his face, although he doubted he was seeing him; his eyes were those of a man who was remembering something he'd rather not.

"Could she..."

It was still difficult for him to talk about what Moriarty had done and the three following years. Sherlock found it was still difficult for him too, which was why they rarely did. But he knew what he meant.

"She wouldn't" he said simply. He was aware that everyone in the room was listening but he didn't care. He had to speak out the truth as much for the doctor as for himself.

"Mrs. Hudson runs a business. She wants to be successful. She wants us out of the way, not to play games like – "

It was John's warning glance that stopped him from continuing, reminding him that Jim was in the room.

The IT tech didn't appear to be too shaken to remember what he was in a parallel universe, but he looked sad.

"Like me" he finished.

"Not like you" Bill replied, standing up despite Mike trying to get him to stay sitting down. With a few strides, he crossed the room and stood in front of his friend.

"We are different people. Do you really think I'm Sherlock, and John is – John?"

A fleeting smile touched Jim's face at Bill's obvious problem to find the words before the sadness returned.

Sherlock realized that John had been right. Bill possessed empathy in an uncommon degree, and he felt that he needed to reassure Jim now so he wouldn't begin to feel guilty or depressed.

He must be a valuable asset at witness interrogations.

"It is kind of strange to see you in a suit" Jim conceded after a moment, and Bill laughed.

"That's settled then".

It was. Bill had known what to say and when to say it. Sherlock doubted that even his doctor would have been able to calm Jim's fears so quickly.

He caught John's eyes and found that his colleague had the same glimmer of pride in them he recognized from himself whenever John pointed out something at a crime scene that someone else had missed or calmed down a witness or family member.

But the interlude hadn't distracted them from what they had to do.

It would probably be easier to find Trevelyan, if they had only known where to look. But Mrs. Hudson wouldn't tell them.

He looked at Bill and a thought struck him.

"Bill" he said slowly, "after everything you have heard about Trevelyan... Do you think he'll stay wherever Mrs. Hudson put him?"

They needed to understand the man if they wanted to capture him, and Bill was the best at understanding motives.

He tilted his head.

"He killed Pike... obviously he was angry – Pike wanted to go to the police or maybe told him that what he was doing was wrong. He must think very highly of himself."

"So you think he might leave his hideout to find another scientist who would give him the treatment he thinks he deserves."

"He doesn't want to make his invention public, though" the doctor interjected, "why would he go then?"

"It's irrational" Bill said, "but humans are irrational. Even scientists. He wants recognition, and he might be desperate enough to get it even if he should stay put".

Sherlock nodded. Trevelyan certainly wasn't an ordinary man, and he definitely wanted to make an impact, his changing of reality was more than enough proof of that. And all scientists wanted to be told that they had done a good job when they invented something; it was a human trait that couldn't be ignored, not even by someone like Trevelyan.

"Who else has done research into parallel universes?" he asked, turning to Jim.

He immediately pulled out a tablet out of the small bag he'd been carrying.

"Give me half an hour".

Sherlock nodded.

For a minute, everyone was quiet, following their own trains of thought. It was Greg who broke the silence.

"Once Jim find something – and that's to say, if he does – what then?"

"We have to surprise her" John announced, and while Greg looked somewhat surprised that he referred to a "her" instead of a "him", Sherlock knew immediately what he meant. They had found Trevelyan once, and they would have taken him, if Mrs. Hudson hadn't put together a protection detail for him. They didn't have to surprise Trevelyan. They had to surprise Mrs. Hudson.

Unfortunately, their landlady knew them better than most. She had had years to learn their habits and study them when they were on a case.

"What would you never do?" he asked. He was confident that John would understand that he meant something that was so unlike him that it would never enter Mrs. Hudson's mind.

He could feel the answer before John gave it, once more realizing that there were some similarities between them.

"Ask for help".

"What?" Bill and John asked at the same time.

"You call your homeless network whenever you need information" the first argued, "and I can't say how many times Jim has helped us".

John was looking from his counterpart to Sherlock, and there was a question in his eyes the consulting detective didn't know how to answer.

"Ask for help" and "seeking help" had always been different things in his eyes, perhaps wrongly; but there was a distinction that he had never been able to overcome in asking for help. "Asking for help" implied that one owed the person a favour afterwards; in other words, asking for help meant looking for assistance where it wouldn't be given out of generosity. He had never asked his friends for help – he had sought for help, and had received it. The only one who had ever asked for help had been Mycroft. In this world, of course, they could not do that.

And the homeless network was paid for what they did, although Sherlock often gave them too much money for how little he received in return, and he suspected that John did it as well.

Therefore asking for help could only mean one thing.

"Is there anyone else at Scotland Yard besides Gregson?"

Bill and John stared at him, something like comprehension in their eyes.

John frowned and thought about it before answering.

"Gregson would help me" he said slowly, "and there are a few others I have helped during the past few years. There's a new one too; I haven't talked to him yet. Dimmock, I think".

"He's interested" Bill said. "I talked to him while you were at St. Bart's."

Of course Dimmock was interested. Sherlock and he had worked together more often since he'd returned and learned that the DI had defended him after his disappearance – not exactly with words, but with silence; he had never confessed that he had doubted Sherlock, visited his funeral and called him a few days after his official return to ask him about a case. If this world's Dimmock was anything like theirs, he would be a good accomplice if they could get him to believe them.

"Scotland Yard it is, then" Greg said. He didn't sound enthusiastic, but Sherlock decided that had to do with being reluctant to go to Scotland Yard. His homeless network had always preferred to leave the scene as soon as the police arrived too.

No one asked the obvious question of how they would get there because the answer was equally obvious. Sherlock and John knew London; they would be able to get them to the Yard, at least. There, they had to put their hope in Gregson, Dimmock and others.

They would need them to send police cars to several addresses, Sherlock quickly explained, to give the impression that they were desperate and didn't know where Trevelyan was hiding. Mrs. Hudson had to believe that it was only a matter of time before they would walk into a trap. She had undoubtedly set enough.

Before they could set the plan in motion, however, they would have to find Trevelyan.

So they waited.

Exactly thirty minutes after he had begun, Jim looked up and announced that he had found a scientist named Garrideb who was notorious because he always did his work at home; he hadn't left his house in years. He was also an expert on parallel universes.

At least they knew where to go to from Scotland Yard, now.


	32. Chapter 32

It would have been better if they had been a smaller group, but Mike refused to leave his brother and Jim didn't want to let his friends walk into danger. And Greg, while declaring that he could imagine better places than Scotland Yard if they wanted to be safe, was obviously going to accompany them disregarding his dislike for the police force.

John and Sherlock quickly talked about their route.

Bill pulled John in a corner.

"Is everything alright?" the doctor asked immediately.

Bill nodded, quickly dismissing any doubts John had had about his arm. "This plan..." he trailed off.

He didn't have to elaborate. John knew. To convince the consulting criminal that they had no clue where they were going, they would not only have to send police cars, but they would need to be seen in them.

At least they would be relatively safe with police men surrounding them – Mrs. Hudson certainly didn't want to alert anyone who had the potential of becoming tiresome to her existence – but they would have to split up if they went through with it.

Bill was concerned that his friend and Sherlock might go off on their own, and John could see why.

They had a better chance at tracking down Trevelyan and distracting Mrs. Hudson if they did so. But the two would want someone looking for Trevelyan they could trust – someone like Bill and John. They might insist on going with the police, at least for the moment, while one of them went to Garrideb.

They wouldn't allow it. One look between them was enough to confirm this.

Mrs. Hudson would of course suspect something if none of them were in the police cars; but she would be surprised that any were sent to scientists and other hiding places to begin with. As John had pointed out, he didn't like asking for help.

She would have to track every car. Maybe she would be busy for a few hours. That was their chance. It wasn't the best, but it was the best they had.

Sherlock called out and they moved, Jim commenting "Time to be off".

"Wait" John said. Sherlock recognized the tone in his voice and turned around.

"John – "

"The plan" the doctor said, "So we are going to distract her with the help of the police."

"Yes."

"And where are you going to be in the meantime?"

After they had met, before Moriarty, Sherlock would have lied or not looked so guilty; but now, he glanced at John's counterpart and sighed.

"You are not going to play bait" he stated. Bill's glare at John told him the same.

Eventually, after a discussion of several minutes, the consulting detectives gave in.

"You are aware" John began "that she will soon notice something is amiss –"

"We are not separating" Bill replied defiantly "and that is final".

He wasn't looking at his flatmate; instead, his gaze was fixed on the doctor, and John wondered if he remembered what he had told him, about the three years without Sherlock. If he wanted to prevent this at all costs.

Sherlock had stopped arguing before John's counterpart, maybe because he was thinking the same, and simply said, "We will have to be quick."

Jim, Mike and Greg hadn't said a word during their discussion; they seemed to feel that they had no place in it. Now, they reminded them that they had been about to leave, and they did so.

They led them through streets John hadn't know existed, small alleys and dark corners, and the doctor found that for all the running around he did with Sherlock he would still be able to get lost in London.

"God knows how they do it" Bill told him. "Once I had to find John after he had been kidnapped, and he didn't tell me the address, only how I could get there."

John could tell a similar story – once Mycroft had had him and Sherlock picked up in a limousine with darkened windows, so that they wouldn't see where they were going, but when they had arrived Sherlock had simply got out of the car and told his brother the address – and he had just finished when a look from both their friends made it clear that they should stay silent. This produced a pout from Jim, who had happily been listening to their conversation.

They arrived at Scotland Yard just as Bill's breathing as becoming a laboured. It didn't surprise John. He had been shot, and he had lost blood. He should be resting instead of running around. But the chance of him leaving John to do this alone was about as big as the chance of John letting Sherlock walk away.

No one paid them much attention on their way. John knew, of course, that they couldn't walk into the Yard, at least not all of them; and it was quickly decided, at a corner near the entrance, that Sherlock and John would go in, so that no one would ask questions about Bill's arm.

"If everything goes to plan" John said, "we'll join you shortly. We will then go to Garrideb."

"And if it doesn't?"

It was Mike who asked, his voice showing how nervous he felt.

"By now, the police will have been to Baker Street" Sherlock answered. "They are probably already looking for us. They might keep us in for questioning".

He paused before continuing, "in this case, you have to find Garrideb without us".

He looked at John. "Find Trevelyan. If necessary – "

He interrupted him. He knew what Sherlock was about to say, and he didn't want to hear it.

"No".

"You don't know what I wanted to say."

"Yes I did. And I won't capture Trevelyan and return without you. No."

"If I am – "

"You won't be held here. They can only treat you as a victim. They won't keep you her against your will".

He spoke to convince himself as well as Sherlock. He didn't know how well the relationship between his counterpart and the police force was – if it was anything like it had been when he had met Sherlock, it wasn't easy, and many would gladly welcome an opportunity to put them in a cell for a few hours. Only these few hours could decide everything.

Sherlock couldn't really be suggesting that he found Trevelyan and returned on his own. He had to know he would never do that.

The small smile on his friend's face – somewhat resigned and yet happy – proved that John's suspicion was correct. He had told him to go because he felt it was the right thing to do, not because he wanted it or because he thought he would do it.

Sherlock and John left soon afterwards, with the others hiding in the shadows.

John went straight to Gregson's office, like he had when they had been looking for the files, and the DI greeted him with a weary expression.

"I hear you've been here. Did you find what you were looking for? And while we're at it, would you mind explaining why someone tried to have you shot by several snipers?"

"Yes" John said simply. "We don't have the time. As a matter of fact, Inspector, most of London is controlled by a criminal".

Gregson had been taking a sip of his coffee and started coughing.

"What?"

"The third office on the right" John said to Sherlock, and he slipped out while the other man began to explain. He knew he would find Dimmock behind the door, and the faster they could set things in motion, the better.

He knocked and entered in one fluid motion.

The young DI looked up, surprised. Sherlock quickly deduced that nothing had altered in his life and felt strangely happy about the fact.

"You're Bill Holmes, aren't you?"

He nodded, thinking that he would be glad to return to where people didn't know his first name.

He quickly explained the situation.

Dimmock stared at him after he had stopped talking. Sherlock was beginning to feel impatient. If the police didn't want to help them, they would have to find Trevelyan before Mrs. Hudson could move to get the machine or kill him and risk that they would be chased.

"So – London is run by a – "

"Consulting criminal" Sherlock finished. "And we need to find someone and distract said consulting criminal – "

"And you want us to drive around and do it" Dimmock said. He brought his hand up to rub his face in a gesture that was oddly reminiscent of Greg.

"Give me one reason I should believe you – " he stopped, obviously choosing not to say something.

Sherlock didn't know this universe's Dimmock. Even though it seemed like nothing had changed, everything could be different. But he had to try. He didn't have the time to make him believe him if he decided against it.

Therefore he said, "You were about to call me an arrogant sod."

And Dimmock simply stared.

Finally he said, "I thought you were supposed to be the normal one".

""Normal" is simply a concept created by people who believe themselves to be".

Maybe it was because he was using the good sense that Sherlock had always thought he possessed, but Dimmock stood up.

"If you are right, I'm doing something to save the city. If not, I only waste an afternoon. Where should I send the car?"

Sherlock couldn't help the smirk that appeared on his face.

The game was on.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was asked for a summary. I know my stories can be confusing, so here it is: Sherlock and John were thrown into a parallel universe when they were investigating a man named Trevelyan, who wants to use travels between dimension to control his own. Changing things in the parallel universe - like, for example, causing a chain of events that wouldn't have taken place by changing someone's mind, or murdering someone who was supposed to live - makes it possible to change things in one's own universe. However, one has to go to a parallel universe and can only change the reality of one's own. Trevelyan murdered a scientist and brought back Moriarty in his universe - he survived the Fall and has been controlled by Trevelyan ever since, which he resents.
> 
> Trevelyan's goal is to control Britain and make sure that everything is run the way he imagines it - through Science.
> 
> Sherlock and John met their own counterparts - John is a consulting detective, Sherlock is called Bill and is his best friend. Lestrade is a member of his homeless network, and Moriarty is Jim from IT, who helps them gain information. They found out that there is a consulting criminal in this world as well, who is working with Trevelyan to be able to control it. It's Mrs. Hudson.
> 
> They are on their way to another scientist, who can hopefully help them find Trevelyan, while Mycroft and Greg found Moriarty in their world and are in possession of the machine that could allow them to return home; they have to be near Trevelyan and his sensor to allow that to happen, though.
> 
> I just confused you even more, didn't I.

They returned to the dining room and stared at the device.

Greg's hands were clenched into fists. If they brought back Trevelyan, there was no reason to think that he would help them to find Sherlock and John. He wondered if Moriarty had known – if he had taken pleasure in the fact that they were looking for a machine that couldn't do what they wanted, needed it to do – but it didn't matter.

There was only one thing they could do now.

He took a deep breath.

"We have to trust Sherlock."

Sherlock would find Trevelyan; Greg was sure of it.

Mycroft nodded. He looked tired and worn out; he must have been fighting the memories while he was alone. Greg hadn't had a problem, in the living room with Moriarty, because he had seen what had changed.

"We'll give him two more hours" Mycroft decided.

Moriarty stayed silent as they settled down to wait.

* * *

Sherlock went back to Gregson's office to find that John had had a more difficult task at convincing the DI than he had with Dimmock, but that three cars would be sent out.

"It should give us an hour, at least" John said as they returned to the others.

"Garrideb, then" Sherlock began. "Jim?"

The other man happily told them the address again, along with the other information he had been able to find. Looking at him grin, his similarity with Moriarty was harder to ignore, and Sherlock nodded so his voice wouldn't betray him.

He was glad John was standing behind Jim; the doctor obviously found it difficult to hide his feelings.

John listened to Jim and wished he could punch him. It was completely irrational, not to mention unfair – and he had done it before. But this happy tone... It reminded him too much of waking up and being decked out in Semtex and a consulting criminal who'd cheerfully explained what he had to do.

Bill nudged him and John looked at him to find understanding in his eyes, if accompanied by weariness because Jim was his friend and he didn't want him to be hit again.

John smiled, although it was clear by Bill's face that it was a rather weak smile, and shook his head.

He had almost forgotten about Mike until he made a step forward and studied them as well as Jim; he was frowning, and John was certain that once this was over he would demand an explanation from his brother.

Garrideb didn't live that far away, if in a gloomy-looking house at the end of the street.

"Do you propose we just walk in there?" Mike asked. The silence of the others was answer enough, and he began "And what if – "

"He has done research into parallel universes" Sherlock said. "He will know what is going on. Trevelyan may already have contacted him".

"And if he didn't?"

"Then he will soon."

"Soon enough for her to find us" he grumbled, but didn't say anything else as they rang the doorbell.

Greg left them to watch from afar, claiming that he would keep watch; Sherlock knew that his homeless network was more than capable of staying invisible and trusted that he would do so. This led to a quick discussion, while footsteps could be heard approaching the door, but finally Bill convinced his brother and Jim to wait with Greg. It was for the best. A man who never left his home was certainly not used to much company.

Eventually Garrideb opened the door. He was an elderly man with a friendly twinkle in his eyes, not someone one would have imagined to be a scientist. Then again, John wouldn't have thought someone like Trevelyan would commit murder.

He gave them a shrewd look.

Trevelyan had been in contact. There was no doubt in Sherlock's mind. Now it remained to be seen on which side Garrideb stood.

"Fascinating" he said, pushing his glasses up his nose. "I have studied parallel dimensions for years, but to finally see the proof – "

"Could we step in, please?" John interrupted him.

Garrideb blinked.

"Of course."

He stepped aside and let them enter.

They followed him into a living room that was full of small statues and instruments and books and messier than 221B had ever been, and Sherlock decided to remind John of it when the doctor began to complain again.

"So. You are from a parallel universe" Garrideb said, sitting down on the only chair. He didn't offer them a seat, but it would have been difficult to locate one anyway.

"Yes" Sherlock said.

Garrideb hummed, but didn't reply.

"We think" John Watson said, "that Trevelyan might try to contact you."

"If you are anything like your reputation suggests, Mr. Watson, you will know that he already did" the other man answered. In fact, he is upstairs."

All of them looked up. Sherlock could feel excitement coursing through his veins.

"He thinks that I believe him a genius, and that I will help him".

"You won't".

It was a statement. Sherlock had seen it in his eyes, in the way he had sat down, the relief in his shoulders. He was glad they were here, and not because he wanted to destroy them.

"You are right."

"But why – " the doctor began, but Bill interrupted him, "He doesn't approve."

Garrideb nodded.

"I am a scientist. I love theories, I love speculating. I love finding proof. But Trevelyan... He took it and he used it, used science for his own personal motives, and I don't like that."

He might have told him that not only had Trevelyan used science for personal gain, but that he had also killed for it, but Sherlock doubted that this would have the same effect.

He looked up again, going through their options.

* * *

Two hours dragged by. It was difficult to keep remembering, and Mycroft's ashen face told him that he had the same problems. Moriarty was cheerful, but quiet, and Greg wondered if he only wanted to make them think he had a trick up his sleeve or if that was the truth.

* * *

"Does he want you to call him down?" Sherlock asked.

"When all's dealt with, yes".

"You mean – " John began, but Garrideb answered, "when I've sent you away, of course. I'm not a barbarian".

"Give the signal".

Sherlock said it quickly; he heard John and Bill already moving to both sides of the door, and John came to stand beside him. There was no point in hiding. They would have to talk to Trevelyan, find out how to return home.

Garrideb took a broom and knocked on the door.

They heard Trevelyan walk down the stairs. He entered, and John dragged him inside and closed the door, standing in front of it. Trevelyan looked at him, shook his head and turned around to face Sherlock and John.

"I should have know. I will never find someone who understands me".

John found it difficult to pity him.

They drew their guns. Garrideb withdrew in a corner and picked up a book, unconcerned to what was happening.

"Would you really kill me?" Trevelyan asked, then answered himself. "Of course not. You want to go home. You want to destroy everything".

"If you mean that we want to make sure nothing like this happens again, you are right" Sherlock responded.

"Then I'll have to prevent you from doing so" Trevelyan said softly.

"Even if you managed to kill one of us – "

"I know" Trevelyan said. "The others would get me. And that's the problem. You simply – can't".

Sherlock tried to move a step closer, but the other man immediately drew a gun.

"It's a shame; but without me you can't return. You don't know how to activate the sensor if someone doesn't press the button in our universe. And it's unlikely that someone should. Therefore, you need me. And I am sure you could get me to talk".

"Yes" Sherlock said, his voice holding a deadly promise.

Trevelyan sighed.

"She will take care of you" he said confidently. There's one regret, though – I really wish I could have seen the fruits of my work, but many people haven't."

What he wanted to do flashed across Sherlock's mind in an instant, but as he was stepping forward, Trevelyan pulled the trigger.

His body fell on the carpet.

They stepped towards him in the silence, all of them except Garrideb, who was happy to stay with his book.

They stared at him, for a few seconds unable to comprehend what had happened.

"What now?" John asked. "We don't know how it works – "

There was finality in his voice, like he was already accepting that they would never return home, but Sherlock wouldn't allow that. There had to be a way.

Sherlock looked at the sensor.

* * *

"Two hours" Moriarty remarked. "Time to try, don't you think, Big brother?"

Mycroft didn't answer him. He looked at Greg. The DI nodded.

"Sherlock found him" he said. While he wasn't sure and said it to convince himself as well the British Government, he couldn't help but feel that his friend had indeed traced Trevelyan. He was Sherlock Holmes, and he had John at his side. He could do anything.

Mycroft stared at the machine before he reached out, his hand trembling. Greg desperately hoped that they would succeed; the strain was beginning to take its toll; he felt that his thoughts were getting more confused by the minute.

Mycroft pressed a button.

* * *

At this moment, it started to blink.


	34. Chapter 34

It blinked. Sherlock looked at John, then bent down. He picked it up and studied it. The silence was only broken by Garrideb, who walked up the stairs to see if Trevelyan had done anything to his valuable collection.

Eventually, Sherlock spoke.

“There’s a switch”.

“And if it’s Moriarty at the other end?” John asked, many emotions and thoughts coursing through him. He had given up the moment Trevelyan shot himself, although not in the way many would have supposed: he had simply given up the thought to return home and focused on keeping Sherlock save. This world wasn’t so bad, and he had his best friend at his side. His greatest worry had been for Greg, who would have to go up against Moriarty.

“It’s possible” Sherlock said, and his eyes were glowing, glowing in the way that told John he would try anyway because Sherlock wanted to get home, and John wanted it too, only not at the price that Sherlock’s life might be in danger.

“It’s worth a try” John said; not the doctor, but the other John, who was looking at Sherlock and seemed to understand.

“And if it gets them killed?” Bill asked, worry evident in his voice.

Sherlock looked up, then let his gaze fall on Trevelyan’s body.

“I underestimated him” he admitted. “I didn’t think he would kill himself”.

“It’s the coward’s way out” Bill replied defiantly. “You overestimated him”.

John saw Sherlock flinch, only slightly, and his grip on the sensor grew slack. Being reminded of Moriarty apparently also reminded him of the danger they were in.

“You should go”.

It was the other consulting detective again, his voice clear and loud in the silence.

“John –“ Bill began, but he shook his head.

“You don’t understand” he said, but there was no venom in his voice, no assumption that Bill was an idiot; he was simply stating a fact.

“This isn’t his battlefield. He belongs there.”

John wasn’t angry that he had simply said “He” instead of “they”; it was clear that he would follow Sherlock. And looking at his friend, he knew the other man was right. Sherlock needed London, their London; needed the air that he had made sweeter by protecting the city.

He would press the switch. And they couldn’t risk to wait, to maybe find a way to contact their home; the light might go off any moment, and then they would be stuck here.

When Trevelyan had died, John would have been able to cope. But now here was hope again, the hope to return home, and he already knew they were going to take their chance.

Sherlock spoke.

“I am sorry to leave you – “

Then doctor’s counterpart chuckled. “It’s a mess, isn’t it? But don’t worry, we can take it. You dealt with Moriarty, didn’t you?”

This was different, though. This was not about playing games, but destroying the opponent, and Sherlock didn’t know if they would win.

But looking at them and remembering Jim and Mike and Greg, not to mention Gregson and Dimmock, he started to think that they might have a chance.

“Don’t worry” Bill said, “We’ll make it. We always do”.

He sounded so confident that Sherlock suppressed a smile.

Bill turned to the doctor.

“Take care of him. They are lost without us”.

“Yes, they are. And I will”.

They hugged, John careful with Bill’s arm, and Sherlock reached out to shake John’s hand.

“It’s going to be a long fight” he warned him.

“At least I won’t be bored” the other man shot back, and they smiled at one another.

“Sorry, but he – oh” Greg entered the room, followed by Mike and Jim; the elder Holmes immediately went to his brother, barely looking at the body on the floor.

“Well, that complicates matters” Greg said at the same time as Jim inquired, “Does that mean you can’t get home?”

Sherlock wordlessly held up the sensor. John explained, “We could get home with that. Possibly.”

“And, are you going to try?” Jim asked. The doctor nodded.

Unexpectedly, he was pulled into a hug by Jim.

“Look after yourself and him. And sorry again”.

John laughed and patted the back of the man he’d punched when he’d first seen him.

Greg strolled over to Sherlock.

“You don’t have to worry about these two. Plenty of hideouts I can get them in”.

“Thank you”.

The man seemed uncomfortable with the gratitude that shone out of Sherlock’s eyes, shuffled his feet and nodded.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock turned to Mike

“Yes?”

“Tell my counterpart to keep a better eye on you, alright? You are too thin.”

The thought of Mycroft making him eat would have been funny if Sherlock hadn’t remembered his detox in his mansion, so he simply told him he would pass on the message, and Mike squeezed his shoulder.

Sherlock looked at them all in turn and was surprised that he had to clear his throat. Despite the similarities and differences between them, or maybe because of them, he had grown to like these people.

“You should leave. It’s likely that the sensor will transport anyone in a certain radius.”

Greg was the first to leave, with a quick glance back; then followed Mike and Jim.

Bill and John lingered, smiling at them once more before walking out the door.

John took a deep breath, silently wishing them the best. They would need all the help they could get.

“Well, then”.

He looked up at the ceiling. “Do you think Garrideb will be safe?”

“It’s likely we will take the body with us. He will simply recall our visit as an inconvenience” Sherlock replied.

John shook his head. “Of course we had to meet someone who was more unsociable than you” he grumbled. Then he smiled.

“Let’s go home”.

Sherlock nodded and grasped his hand; he wanted to make sure that they would go together, wherever they might be going.

“Ready?”

“Always” John replied, looking straight into his eyes.

Sherlock flipped the switch.

For a moment, Greg thought nothing had happened. He was about to ask if Mycroft thought anything had changed when a blinding light filled the room and he had to close his eyes.

There was a loud noise, as of several bodies falling down, and he quickly opened his eyes again and blinked, trying to adjust to the once more normally lighted room.

Mycroft was fine and moving towards Sherlock and John, who were sitting on the floor, looking confused; Greg automatically went to follow him when he remembered the room’s other occupant and drew his weapon as he turned around, pointing it at Moriarty who was trying to leave.

“Can’t blame me for trying” he explained, “especially since it seems like our deal lost his point.”

Greg almost turned around. Everything in him told him to turn around, because this was about Trevelyan, and if it was about Trevelyan, it was about Sherlock and John too; but he managed to fight the temptation and motioned for Moriarty to walk back into the room with his gun.

The consulting criminal looked almost impressed.

When Moriarty had reached the middle of the room, Greg finally registered that Trevelyan was lying on the floor, dead.

“Sherlock? John? Are you okay?”

By this time, his friends were standing. Sherlock was staring at Moriarty, who was looking back with a small smile on his face.

“Yes” John answered, “We’re fine”. He smiled. “Glad that it was you who pressed the button”.

There really wasn’t much else to say, not with Moriarty in the room, and Sherlock took a step towards him, and there was such ferocity in his face, such hatred that only became worse when Moriarty started to laugh, and Greg was wondering whether he should grab Sherlock before he did something he might regret –

Moriarty looked away, looked at something next to Sherlock’s left shoulder, and the expression on his face spoke of surprise, but Greg didn’t want to concentrate on anything else than his friend –

A shot rang out. Moriarty fell down, a bullet in his heart.

All of them stared at Mycroft. He walked over to the table and laid the gun down.

“He was a danger to the country” he said. “We would have been forced to eliminate him anyway”.

It seemed like a spell had been broken, because suddenly, John and Greg were embracing and Sherlock hugged back when the DI did the same to him afterwards, and even Mycroft looked slightly pleased.

Greg realized that he was the accomplice to two murders, but he didn’t care.

Sherlock and John were back. Even that Moriarty had been alive for three years and that they had to get Moran and unravel his web all over again didn’t matter. They were back.

Hours later, after a hug Sherlock had reciprocated, Sherlock and John had told them what had happened and Greg was trying to imagine Sherlock being called Bill and John being impolite and himself as a homeless man, the consulting detective asked his brother for Trevelyan’s files.

Mycroft replied, “You are aware – “

“I am not trying to find a way back. I’m trying to find a way to contact them. They need all the help they can get”.

Mycroft hesitated, but when he looked in his brother’s eyes, Greg saw understanding there.

And as he handed Sherlock the files and the consulting detective looked at his flatmate, Greg couldn’t help but feel that his friend had been right when he had told him something years ago.

They had to hide bodies and explain their behaviour (even if they thankfully no longer had to fear for their memories, because since Sherlock’s and John’s return they hadn’t had troubled holding on to them), they had to see what Moriarty had done in the last three years, but they were already on the brink of another adventure.

Because Sherlock was right.

The game was never over.  


End file.
